You Are Here
by lilbluedancer
Summary: She's seventeen and alone in a car with a boy and she doesn't know his real name. Lydia, Stiles, and (not) saying I love you. Stydia AU
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This fic has a trigger warning for abuse (nothing Stydia-related and nothing graphic but it's in there). This is a Stydia fic but there's a fair amount of Lydia/Jackson in the first half, so consider yourselves warned. *** **runs and hides*** **Inspired by the poem quoted below:**

 _You're in a car with a beautiful boy, and he won't tell you that he loves you, but he loves you. And you feel like you've done something terrible, like robbed a liquor store, or swallowed pills, or shoveled yourself a grave in the dirt, and you're tired. You're in a car with a beautiful boy,_ _and you're trying not to tell him that you love him, and you're trying to choke down the feeling, and you're trembling, but he reaches over and_ _he touches you, like a prayer for which no words exist, and you feel your heart taking root in your body, like you've discovered something you_ _don't even have a name for._

 _-Richard Siken, You are Jeff_

Rain lashes against the glass doors at the entrance to the school, the sky outside an ominous grey. Bad weather for lacrosse practice, Lydia thinks idly, picturing Jackson, mud on his cleats, rainwater in his hair. His face a mask of disdain.

Shoes squeak on the linoleum floor behind her. It's five-fifteen in the afternoon and it's raining outside and Allison is late.

Lydia turns around.

There is a boy standing just behind and to the right of her, a set of car keys twirling between his fingers.

She doesn't know his name but this can't be held against her given that no one in their grade knows his name, with the exception of Scott McCall perhaps. He has a nickname, Stiles, a fact she only knows because lately Allison has been dropping it in conversation.

 _Scott and I went to a movie with Stiles..._

 _I swear, he loves Stiles more than he loves me..._

 _I'm sitting with Scott and Stiles today, you're not mad, right Lydia?_

"Need a ride?" He's looking at her, she realizes, looking at her arms crossed tightly across her chest, eyes scanning the parking lot. "Allison left with Scott half an hour ago."

Lydia checks her phone and sure enough there's an unread text from Allison:

 _Sorry, left with Scott, will make it up to you tomorrow, promise! Heart eyes emoji, boy and girl holding hands emoji, eggplant emoji._

Lydia despises emojis. They're immature and also so imprecise, wildly open to interpretation. Language was invented for a reason.

"What do you make of this?" she asks, holding the screen out to the boy.

His cheeks flush a pretty shade of pink. "Well they're either boning or cooking eggplant parmesan and given that I know for a fact Scott doesn't know how to turn his oven on, I'd say definitely the former."

"Unbelievable," Lydia murmurs. Never has she ever envisioned a scenario in which her best friend would ditch her for Scott McCall's dick.

"So, uh, you want that ride?" The look on his face can only be described as hopeful but Lydia is used to this, boys looking at her with stars in their eyes.

It doesn't mean anything.

"You're Scott's friend, right?" The words sound cruel as soon as they're out of her mouth, like she's deliberately trying to put him in his place.

Scott McCall used to be a nobody until he made first line of lacrosse last spring and started dating Allison. It must hurt, to be the one left behind, the boy sitting on a bench watching his best friend get all the glory and the girl.

Stiles shrugs, his body wrapped in layers: tee shirt, plaid flannel, navy blue hoodie. "And you're Jackson's girlfriend."

A statement, not a question. She narrows her eyes at him. He could've said, _you're Allison's friend_ , he could've said, _you sit across from me in precalc._

He could've said, _you're Lydia Martin_ , because he knows her name, everyone in Beacon Hills knows her name.

"I'm not his property," she says sharply. "I'd prefer not to be referred to as somebody's girlfriend."

He snorts. "You might want to tell him that."

"Excuse me?"

His eyes widen just a fraction. "Nothing. He just, you know. Talks about you sometimes. In the locker room. Guys do that, it's not a big deal, sorry, I didn't mean to imply-"

"Whatever." She cuts him off because she's getting the impression that without someone to stop him he'll just keep going, and being ditched by her best friend is enough humiliation to endure for one afternoon. "Yes."

"Yes?" A look of shocked surprise on his face.

"To the ride. If you're still offering."

"Oh! Yes, absolutely." He peers out the doors, watching the rainstorm, and looks down at her shoes, which happen to be four inch stiletto heeled suede ankle boots.

"They match my dress," she says preemptively, waiting for an insult that doesn't come.

"I'm parked at the end of the lot," he says. "You can wait here, I'll pull around to the front for you."

Before she can think of a response (Jackson would never do that, he hates waiting for anyone, has no understanding of what it's like to walk in heels) Stiles is peeling off his sweatshirt and handing it to her before throwing his body out the doors and running down the steps to the end of parking lot.

She presses her face against the glass, watches him drive a death trap of a car around the lot and park right in front, hazard lights flashing.

Lydia holds his sweatshirt over her head to protect her curls from the rain as she walks to the car, careful not to slip on the pavement. He's turned the vents on and she folds his damp sweatshirt and twists around to lay it across his lacrosse bag in the backseat.

She's seventeen and alone in a car with a boy and she doesn't know his real name. She's in a car with a boy who isn't her boyfriend and it feels like a little rebellion. She can imagine the look on Jackson's face if he heard that Lydia Martin went home from school with Stiles Stilinski.

She doesn't realize until he's pulling up to the curb outside her house that he knew how to get here without asking for directions.

"I've picked up Allison here with Scott before," he explains. "I'm not stalking you or anything."

"Oh," she says, because she really doesn't care. She doesn't even know him. He's just a boy.

"Allison talks about you a lot," he comments. "You guys are totally like, best friends forever, friendship ring kind of friends, right?"

"I would never wear a friendship ring," she says coolly. "Tacky."

Stiles laughs. "I totally want to get Scott a friendship ring now just to see what he'd do."

"So you're all pretty close now?" The words come out flat. "The three of you."

Stiles shrugs. "He's my best friend so if I actually want to spend time with him sometimes...it's fine. Allison's cool."

Allison is cool but she's dating Scott, and Jackson has despised Scott McCall since he made first line. Lydia is explicitly not allowed to talk to him, otherwise Jackson might have a coronary. Allison, being Allison, is carefully polite to everyone and pretends that Lydia's boyfriend doesn't want to slam Allison's boyfriend headfirst into a wall.

"You could come sometime," he says lightly. "It would definitely alleviate some of the pain of being the eternal third wheel."

"Jackson doesn't like Scott," she says primly.

He snorts. "I don't know if you've noticed but Jackson doesn't really like anyone."

She tosses her hair and gives him a sweet smile. "He likes me."

Stiles bobs his head, looking a little helpless. "You're Lydia Martin. Everyone likes you."

"I should go," she says, abrupt, internal walls coming down, locks and bolts sliding into place. She keeps her legs carefully crossed as she gets out of the car. "Thanks for the ride."

Stiles leans across the empty passenger seat, the window down. He smiles and suddenly he's beautiful, warm eyes that crinkle in the corners, a cute upturned nose, very kissable lips. "Anytime."

She doesn't stand on the bottom step of her house and watch him drive away in his hideous Jeep because she's Lydia Martin and he's just a boy. She doesn't stand there long after he's disappeared around the corner, wondering, testing herself, weighing her feelings against the thoughts in her head.

It's still raining. Her curls go limp and she hardly notices.

/

Jackson likes to leave marks. Hickeys on her neck, bite marks over her breasts. His hands squeeze her waist and hips and thighs, she can line up her fingers over the marks later, when her skin starts to bruise like an overripe piece of fruit.

Sometimes she goes into the bathroom to shower and stares at herself in the mirror, her naked body a map: here are the marks the boy she loves has left on her skin. Here is her proof, his desire stamped in blood.

 _So everyone knows who you belong to._

She is here, standing naked in her bathroom with fallen curls, three purple bruises across one hip. Thinking about Stiles' long fingers and broad palms.

The kinds of marks they could leave.

/

Lydia's standing at her locker switching out her French book for World History when the boy - Stiles - crashes into the locker next to hers, wide eyed and flailing. "Ohmygod you have to help me, I'm begging you Lydia, you have to help me out here, I can't do it again, I'm _begging_ you."

She shuts her locker with a neat flick of her wrist. "You're rambling."

He inhales dramatically and straightens out, broad shoulders rolling back. "I need you to go on a date with me and Scott and Allison. Sorry, not a _date_ date, like a platonic group hang, well, Scott and Allison will be on a date, you and I will be hanging. Platonically."

"I'm sorry," she says tartly. "Did you just ask me to socialize with you, Scott and Allison? Together? In public?"

"Scott and I were going to see the new Avengers movie. Just us, and then somehow Allison got invited, and now we're getting dinner before the movie and I hung out with them last weekend and it was disgusting, Lydia. Like, yay for love and all that but seriously, I can't even eat when I'm around them anymore, nobody is that truly in love, I'm sorry, they are just not natural, and if you don't come with us and give me something to focus on other than _ScottandAllison_ , epic romance of our time, I will die and it will be all your fault, so please, _please_ come with us."

She reaches up and straightens her ponytail. You're asking me for a favor?"

" _Yes_ ," he says emphatically. "Please be a friend and do me this favor."

"But we aren't friends," she points out.

He waves an impatient hand at that. "We're totally friends."

"One shared ride does not a friendship make."

"My best friend is in love with your best friend, so by the transitive property-"

"We're not numbers, we're people."

"You're incredibly argumentative," he says, but he's smiling, like he likes it. And then he snaps his fingers, triumphant. "I gave you a ride!"

"Yes Stiles, I'm aware of that."

"I did you a favor!" he crows. "I gave you a ride, I saved you from walking in the rain in heels, you totally owe me!"

She bites her bottom lip. "Jackson won't like it."

Stiles rolls his eyes. "So don't tell him."

"He's my boyfriend."

Stiles raises an eyebrow. "I thought you weren't his property."

She stands in the hallway next to the lockers, two minutes left to get to History on time, and listens to herself say yes as if the word has left her mouth of its own volition.

/

She's in a car again but this time she's behind the wheel. She's wearing a navy silk vintage dress with white birds swirling around the hem of the skirt and the top section of her hair is braided away from her face, the rest left curling around her shoulders. Liquid liner, red lipstick, she looks like a doll, a porcelain skinned Lydia doll.

 _Buy me, want me, love me. Don't you think I'm pretty?_

She drives to Cafe Roma with Allison in the passenger seat. Her best friend smiles, her face is alive with light because they're going to meet Stiles and Scott, and nothing makes Allison smile like Scott McCall.

Lydia is secretly envious. She wants to look like that, cheeks flushed with arousal and eyes shining with trust and love.

But Lydia is not Allison Argent. Girls like Allison, willowy and tall, pretty but not fussy, girls who giggle like that, speak in soft honey tones like that, deserve to smile, to have boys like Scott McCall worship at their feet.

Lydia is the type of girl who inspires a different kind of devotion.

She sits in a booth across from Allison and Scott, Stiles only three inches away from touching her body in the vinyl seat. Lydia watches the three of them devour individual pizzas piled with veggies (Allison) extra cheese (Scott) and meat (Stiles).

She has a Caesar salad and a glass of ice water with three lemon wedges because Jackson loves _your body, yeah, just like that, god Lydia, your mouth your tits your thighs your hips._

Allison and Scott are pressed shoulder to shoulder and he's looking at her like there are galaxies woven through her curls, diamonds glittering in her dimples. It's like looking at an island, something beautiful and mysterious and distant.

Lydia smiles and nods and listens to their easy banter, eats her salad leaf by leaf and lets Stiles pay for her because Scott is paying for Allison and apparently a platonic date is still a date.

The movie is playing at a theater a few blocks from Cafe Roma. Lydia and Stiles walk side by side, a few paces behind Scott and Allison. Allison's laughing and tossing her hair, Scott's hand dipping lower and lower on her back until he's cupping the top of her ass.

"See what I mean?" Stiles tips his chin at them. "Like, zero awareness that there might be _any other people around!"_

Scott gives him the finger with his free hand without turning back at them and Allison giggles.

"You're engaging in a fruitless endeavor," Lydia advises. "They're idiots for each other."

"Yeah," Stiles says fondly. "I guess they're kinda sweet when they aren't being totally nauseating."

Inside the theater Scott and Allison share a tub of popcorn, Allison half in Scott's lap. Lydia's sitting next to her, Stiles to her right, mouth wrapped around a red vine in a way that looks just obscene. Her stomach twists in hunger and she thinks about his tongue, if Stiles would taste sticky sweet with artificial sugar.

Halfway through the movie something gets passed into her hand. She looks down in the dim light to see herself holding a Reese's peanut butter cup. Stiles is holding its twin, the shadows in the dark theater catching on his face. She raises a questioning eyebrow at him and he gives her a shy smile, leaning in to whisper in her ear.

"You look hungry." His voice is low, right in her ear, he's so close he could catch her earring in his teeth. "And everyone likes peanut butter and chocolate, right?"

She's sitting in a movie theater with a boy she hardly knows and her best friend is making out with Lydia's boyfriend's mortal enemy. Allison has clearly forgotten that Lydia (hell, everyone except Scott) exists and Stiles is closing his hand around her wrist.

Lydia stares at him, his hand on her, and it's as good as she thought it would be. His fingers are so long he could close his whole hand around her wrist without touching her. But he is touching her, skin warm against hers. It's grounding, makes her feel more real.

 _Eat_ , he mouths.

Her hand floats to her mouth, like she's powerless against his command. Chocolate and peanut butter consume her senses, the heat of his body so close to hers that she just kind of melts and involuntarily moans as she swallows. She spends the rest of the movie watching his fingers dance in his lap, tap against his thigh, drum against the armrest, always, always moving.

She still has the taste of sugar on her tongue when the movie ends. They file out into the lobby, Scott and Stiles pretending to reenact a fight scene when Lydia sees two boys walking out from the concession stand.

It's Danny Mahealani and that weird kid Isaac Lahey. Danny is Jackson's best friend and Isaac is friends with anyone who gives him even a sliver of attention. They're on the lacrosse team with Scott and Stiles.

 _He talks about you in the locker room._

She looks away before Danny can catch her eye but Scott shouts out, "Danny, Isaac!" Waving at them, big friendly smile on his face.

"What's going on guys?" Danny fist bumps Scott and Stiles, giving everyone a cheerful smile.

"Hey Scott, Allison." Isaac nods shyly. "Stilinski." He doesn't say anything to Lydia because Isaac, like half their grade, is terrified of Jackson and by extension, her.

Four boys:

One of them cares for her like a sister, bonded by Jackson, their shared belief in his greatness.

One of them fears her, tries to shy away, hunching his shoulders. This boy doesn't know how to be seen. Maybe he doesn't want to be.

.

One of them loves her best friend but is a bit (justifiably) suspicious of her. This one doesn't trust her yet, which makes her like him more, for being right about her.

And one of them wants to nurture her: keep her dry, keep her fed. Looks at her with warm wet eyes like he sees right through her charade, can see all the marks on her skin. He is the one she is afraid of, in a thrilling sort of way.

Careful, she reminds herself.

Porcelain breaks.

/

"Lydia!" Allison is waving to her from across the cafeteria, gesturing to an empty chair at the lunch table she's sharing with Scott, Stiles and Isaac, but Jackson is watching her with narrowed eyes.

Lydia shakes her head at Allison and flips her hair, sits down in an empty chair to Jackson's right. He and Danny are studying for a Spanish quiz but Jackson's hardly paying attention. He watches Lydia eat a carton of nonfat Greek yogurt bite by bite and as soon as she's finished Jackson rises from his chair, wordless, his hand gripping her upper arm to pull her out of her chair and lead her out of the cafeteria.

Lydia makes the mistake of looking back as they go out the double doors and into the empty hall. Stiles is watching them, frowning, head tilting in Allison's direction to whisper something.

She lets Jackson tug her down the hall to Coach's empty office. Jackson pulls them inside, locks the door and shuts the blinds. His face is a mask, hollowed eyes and rosebud lips pressed tightly together.

Lydia raises a sharp eyebrow at him. "Is there a reason why you manhandled me in here?"

He's staring at her, jaw locked, looking at her like she's prey, a small animal, something he wants to tear apart with his teeth.

"Coach teaches freshmen health this period," he mutters.

" _Jackson."_

"Danny told me he ran into you the other night." His voice is low and sharp. "Said you were with Allison and McCall and that loser Stilinski."

She blinks innocently at him. "Really?"

Jackson's upper lip curls back in a snarl. "I told you, I don't want you hanging out with them."

"She's my best friend," Lydia snaps. "It's not my fault she's dating Scott."

Just the mention of Scott's name is enough to make Jackson glower. "Stay away from him."

"Or what?" she taunts. "Are you going to punish me?"

"I don't want to punish you." His voice is soft and dangerous. "I just want you to apologize."

She reaches her hands up and settles them around his hips, blinks up at him in a manner she hopes is both contrite and sexy. "I'm sorry."

Rough hands push her to her knees and she gasps involuntarily at the shock of it, bare skin smacking hard on the floor. Jackson's hand goes to his belt and she stares up at him, frozen into silence, watching him unzip his jeans and tug them down over his hips.

It's like this with him sometimes, aggressive, passionate, but usually she has more warning, usually she's in control. She didn't think Jackson actually had it in him, to challenge her like this, to flip the script.

Make her submit.

"Jackson?" she whispers.

She doesn't say _you're scaring me_ because she's Lydia Martin and she is fearless.

His hand fists in her hair. "Apologize."

She could stand up and leave. Hit him across the face, make a mark of her own for once. Break him before he can break her, make him curse her name.

She doesn't.

Lydia opens her mouth and shuts her eyes, and does what he tells her. He's Jackson Whittemore, he's going to be a star and Lydia is going to ride him all the way to the top; she's playing the long game and she can do this.

This is love. A sacrifice, an offering. His hand on the top of her head a blessing, a curse, all her sins forgiven.

This is love. This is what love feels like.

Isn't it?

When it's over Jackson doesn't have that haunted look in his eyes anymore, he helps her up to stand, fingers tender on her mouth.

"Your lipstick is smudged," he informs her, carefully running the edge of his index finger along her lip line. "There, that's better."

Her mouth tastes bitter and there's a dual throb in each knee that tells her she's going to have bruises later. "Oh," she says, shaky and hating herself for it. "Thank you."

Jackson's fingers drift to her chin and squeeze. Not enough to hurt but enough to demand her attention. "You really drive me crazy," he says grimly. "I just can't think straight when you make me mad like that."

"I wasn't trying to make you mad." Her heart is cramping painfully but her face remains placidly calm.

He grasps her jaw, tight, four points of pressure threatening to crack the bone. He's got that blanked out expression he gets after he comes, like he's remembered who he is, remembered that he's Jackson Whittemore and no one crosses him, girls fall to their knees for him simply for the privilege of being chosen.

"Lydia," he says seriously. "Try harder."

/

The party's at Danny's house and because everyone loves Danny everyone is there. Scott and Allison, Jackson of course, Stiles (because Scott), even Isaac, the whole lacrosse team and every moderate-to-extremely popular girl in the junior class.

Lydia is dancing and Jackson's hands are up under her skirt, fingertips sinking into the flesh of her upper thighs, his mouth dragging across her bare shoulder. His lips skate up to her ear, hands drifting around to cup her ass.

"I need another drink." His fingers squeeze, hard enough to burn, just for a second and then he's walking away from her, leaving her alone in the crush of bodies.

She slinks through the crowd, hips swaying to the music, and they part for her like Moses parting the Red Sea, like she's something divine, protected by angels. She knows Danny's house, knows to take the back staircase to the second floor bathroom when she sees that there's a line ten people deep outside the first floor powder room.

The bathroom is occupied. She waits for the door to open, swaying in her stilettos, and when it doesn't she knocks with a fist. After a moment the door swings open to reveal Isaac Lahey, pretty blue eyes unfocused and a little red. He just stands there, blocking the doorway, a stray curl falling across his forehead, staring at her.

"Well?" Lydia asks impatiently. "Are you going to move or am I going to have to make you?"

He stumbles backwards farther into the bathroom, arms coming up to block his face. "S-sorry," he stutters. "I'm sorry."

"Oh my god, it's a party, re _lax_." Lydia grabs him by the elbow but he jumps away and retreats, darts past her through the doorway and runs so fast he almost falls headfirst down the stairs.

She spends a few minutes in front of the mirror, touches up her lipstick and her hair. When she comes downstairs she can't find Jackson until she goes into the kitchen. He's sitting at the table with Danny and some other guys playing quarters and a girl with a long blond ponytail is wrapped around Jackson like a snake.

Lydia doesn't move. She waits for Jackson to see her and when he does he just smirks, his eyes burning cold like ice.

Her cheeks flame, she doesn't care if he's mad at her because she went to one stupid movie, she is Lydia Martin and no one disrespects the queen. Lydia turns on her heel and stalks out of the kitchen, pushes through all the gyrating bodies in the living room until she makes it out the front door.

The night air is cold on her skin. She's in a black strapless minidress with a flared skirt, no tights, open toe strappy pumps, and her boyfriend is inside with a girl who isn't her (blond, long long legs wrapped around Jackson's waist).

Lydia crosses her arms over her chest, feeling very small. Like something old and used, her sheen all worn down, something nobody wants anymore, like a broken toy.

Broken toys get thrown away, everyone knows that.

"Hey, Lydia!"

She turns and Stiles is jogging down the front steps, keys dangling from his fingers. She stops on the sidewalk and waits for him to catch up, crossing her arms protectively against the chill.

Stiles raises an eyebrow. "Need a ride?"

He's parked two blocks away; Lydia follows him down the sidewalk, loose limbed from the alcohol. It feels like it's going to rain, she shivers against the chill and Stiles stops on the sidewalk, reaching out to grasp her wrist. "Hang on."

He unzips the dark grey jacket he's layered over a red hoodie and shrugs out of it, moves behind her and lays it on her shoulders, hands smoothing over it. "You're not wearing a jacket."

She cranes her neck around to look at him. "What are you doing?"

Stiles frowns. "Giving you my jacket."

She stares at him. "Why?"

Stiles' hand skates across her shoulder and sends a shower of sparks down her arm. "Because you don't have one."

She _doesn't care_ that Stiles is touching her and it's _not_ making her stomach flip. "It didn't match my dress," she explains, and her voice does _not_ get high and breathy like she's intentionally flirting with him

It takes him just a little too long to step away from her than it should. "Aren't you cold?"

She smiles slyly. "Not anymore."

When they get into the Jeep the interior light comes on and suddenly Stiles is leaning over in his seat, reaching out to brush her bruised knees with two fingers. Lydia hisses, pulling away from his touch, curling her legs defensively towards her chest.

His eyes go wide. "Are you okay? Are you hurt? What happened?"

"I fell," she lies fluidly. "My heel broke."

Stiles' glances down at her feet, where both heels perfectly intact and strapped on. His eyebrows shoot up. "You want to try that again?"

Her cheeks flame. She has to look away, what a stupid lie, _her heel broke_ , she might as well have said she walked into a door.

"It was an accident," she finally says. "And no, I don't want to talk about it."

"Okay," he says. The keys are dangling in the ignition but he hasn't turned the engine over. He looks out the windshield, forehead furrowed, like he's trying to work out a problem.

"What?" she snaps.

His mouth twists. "Did something happen with Jackson?"

Ice runs up her spine. She's an animal in a bear trap, a butterfly pinned under glass.

Exposed and trapped.

She raises her chin and gives him her frostiest stare. "Excuse me?"

He lowers his eyes, he thinks he's offended her. "I just mean, didn't you come with him?"

She turns around in her seat to face straight ahead, smoothing her hands over her skirt like a good little girl, _don't you want to be good for me, Lydia?_

"Are you driving me home or what?" she asks tightly.

"Sorry," he mumbles. "Shutting up now, got it," and turns the engine over.

/

"What happened to your knees?" Allison asks on Monday in the locker room, when the bruises are fading to an ugly greenish-yellow.

"More like what were you doing on your knees," Erica Reyes cackles, slinking past them to the mirror over the sinks in a black lace bra and matching thong.

Lydia yanks up her tights and pulls her rose colored silk top over her head. "Bitch," she mutters.

"Lydia." Two of Allison's long slim fingers tap her wrist. "Are you okay?"

She can't tell Allison. Allison will tell Scott and Scott will tell Stiles-

Why does she care what Stiles thinks-

He can't find out, she can't let Allison find out; she's Lydia Martin and she has it under control, she can fix this, she has to fix this-

"Lydia!" Allison's eyes are wide and earnest. "Are you even listening to me?"

Deep breath. _Smile, Lydia_. "Everything's fine."

/

Jackson's waiting for Lydia at her locker. She ignores him, spins her combination and deposits her books.

"Lydia," he says impatiently.

She meticulously paints on a fresh coat of liquid lipstick using the little mirror hanging on the inside of her locker door. "Did you want something?"

"You're coming to practice, right?"

"And why would I do that?"

"Uh - because you're my girlfriend?"

"Am I?" She slams her locker shut just to see him flinch. "Because it didn't look that way Saturday night."

"Aw c'mon, I was just playing around."

She crosses her arms tightly against her chest. "Well maybe I don't want to play with you anymore."

He reaches out to cup her elbow, gives her a charming smile that's just the right side of dangerous. "Come on Lydia, don't be mad."

She gives him a stern look. "I'll think about it."

"That's all I ask." His smile is smug, a flash of shiny white teeth.

She imagines them sinking into her flesh, blood spilling over Jackson's lips. Imagines her hair wound around his incisors, cartilage and bone being masticated.

In the end Lydia goes, but only because Allison does too, to watch Scott while she does her math homework. On the field Jackson is working his ass off to keep up with him; Lydia doesn't know what Scott is on but he's easily matching Jackson without breaking a sweat when last year he would've been on his knees gasping for air.

"Allison."

Allison shivers and blows on her hands. "Yeah?"

"How's Scott's asthma?"

Allison crinkles her noise. "What are you talking about?"

"Scott," Lydia says slowly, like Allison is purposefully being an idiot. "Asthma."

Allison grins helplessly. "Yeah, I still don't get it."

Lydia stares at her. "Allison, I've known Scott since kindergarten, the kid couldn't make it through one field day without having an asthma attack."

Allison shrugs. "He must have grown out of it, he's never said anything to me about it."

"I've never heard of someone spontaneously outgrowing a medical condition overnight but sure, why not?" Lydia drawls.

Allison rolls her eyes. "I'm his girlfriend Lydia. I'm telling you, he doesn't have asthma."

"But he"-

"He doesn't." Allison's voice is suddenly very firm, like Lydia is acting like an annoying child. "You must be remembering wrong."

She's not, she knows she's not, but there's something about the way Allison is looking at her that makes Lydia feel the need to be careful. "Fine, whatever. It's not like I even care."

Allison smiles then, and gives Lydia a naughty wink. "Trust me, there's nothing wrong with his lungs. My guy's got stamina."

Lydia scowls. "Congratulations."

"Seriously, are you okay?" Allison gives her a look of sweet concern. "Did something happen at Danny's party?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Lydia says flatly.

Allison sighs. "You know you can talk to me, right?"

"Oh look," Lydia deflects. "Practice is over."

Allison actually squeals and jumps to her feet so she can skip down the bleachers and throw herself into Scott's open arms. Lydia follows slowly because she's wearing four inch wedge-heeled booties and a plum knit miniskirt that's shorter than sin. Stiles joins them at the same time Lydia does, popping up from behind Scott's back, because where Scott McCall goes, Stiles Stilinski follows.

Lydia sees Jackson come off the field with Danny, his jaw locked, a look of disbelief on his face. Lydia suddenly realizes with horror that she's standing with Scott, Stiles and Allison, all together, like she's part of their group. Like she's made some kind of choice or declaration.

And then, because of course she does, Allison says: "Stiles is driving me and Scott, do you need a ride?"

Lydia takes a careful step backwards. "I can't," she says loudly. "I'm having dinner at Jackson's. We always have dinner with his parents on Monday nights." She turns to Jackson and flips her hair. "Right Jackson?"

He grins and struts over to her, slings one arm around her shoulder and kisses the side of her head. Like a perfect Ken doll boyfriend. "Yeah, that's right babe."

Something in Allison's eyes flickers, but then she smiles brightly and shrugs. "Okay! See you tomorrow."

She and Scott trot toward the parking lot, hands linked, sun setting against their profiles like a couple in a magazine. Lydia and Jackson follow, his arm a warm weight over her shoulders. This is what it feels like, somebody's love draped over her body like a protective cloak.

Just make a choice. Choose Jackson, his perfect face and cut body, talent, potential, that wealthy family. Imagine stardom, a diamond engagement ring, make it Tiffany's, a Reem Acra wedding dress and a honeymoon in Turks and Caicos.

And then she makes the mistake of looking back over her shoulder. Stiles is trailing after Scott and Allison, head hung, hands jammed into the pockets of his hoodie.

Lydia's stomach twists and suddenly everything feels wrong.

So don't choose then. Or choose something else.

Choose a boy who talks as fast as she thinks, a boy who races her when solving math problems at the chalkboard and graciously loses every time. A boy who touches her like he could break her into shards of glass if he isn't careful.

Stiles raises his head and their eyes catch. He doesn't say anything, doesn't smile, just gives her a hard stare. Lydia's heart shrivels in her chest, all her confidence evaporating in the face of his judgment. Her cheeks flush with shame and she has to look away, guilt unfurling inside her like a slow blooming flower.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: I own nothing, obviously. Happy Holidays!**

Lydia and Jackson have a perfectly normal dinner with his parents, do their chemistry homework together while his mother roasts a chicken and pretend to listen to his dad complain about his latest case all the way through dessert.

Jackson drives her home when they're finished; he even carries her book bag out to the car for her, his free hand clasped around hers. It's colder outside now that it's dark out, Lydia shivers in her sleeveless top and snuggles closer to Jackson.

Across the street Isaac Lahey's dad pulls his car into the driveway. The passenger door opens and Isaac falls out of the car, still in his lacrosse practice uniform, catching himself with his hands on the bitumen. Mr. Lahey gets out and walks around the front of the car and picks Isaac up by the back of his neck.

Even from across the street Lydia can hear Isaac cry out in response, watches his body arch and struggle. His dad cuffs him on the back of the head, hard, and suddenly Isaac is completely quiet, like a switch has been turned off. He lurches forward from the momentum of being hit, stumbling toward the front door, hands held protectively across the back of his head.

Lydia can't help but watch in fascinated horror. She's never seen violence like this before, brutal and explicit; she had no context for this.

"Jackson," she says tightly. "Why isn't anyone doing anything about that?"

Jackson unlocks the Porsche and opens her door for her. "About what?"

"That," she says, pointing her chin towards Isaac's house.

Jackson shrugs. "It's none of our business."

"But - he hit him!"

Jackson raises a suspicious eyebrow. "Since when do you care about Isaac Lahey?"

"I don't," she says defensively. "That doesn't mean it's okay."

Jackson sighs. "Just get in the car, Lydia."

When they get to her house Jackson parks and leans over the console, his hand curving over the back of her neck. His grip is familiar; she can imagine all the delicate nerves and discs being held together by him. She knows this touch by memory, knows easily it can shift from affection to aggression.

How easily he could break her, bone by bone. If he wanted to.

Jackson kisses her softly. "You know I love you, right?"

She nods, an unpleasant shiver creeping up her spine.

"See how much easier it is like this, when you just do as I ask?" His thumb strokes under her ear.

"Nothing happened," she protests softly. "I love you."

She does, she loves him, even though she knows she shouldn't. There's something wrong with Jackson, something deep inside him: a dark and twisted piece of DNA, mutated cells, something cold and sharp that craves blood and chaos.

Something bad.

/

She sees Scott and Stiles the next morning in the halls. Lydia braces herself but Scott barely looks at her and Stiles gives her the same friendly smile he gives her every day and brightly calls out, "Hi Lydia!"

She doesn't say hi back but she gives him a tight smile and a little wave, a clear polite acknowledgement. When she passes them she hears Stiles loudly say to Scott, "I _told_ you we were friends!"

Lydia can't help but smile. It feels strangely good to be nice, such a small thing to give to make him happy. The feeling carries her all the way to lunch; she flounces over to Jackson's table and sits down next to him.

"You look hot babe." Jackson tugs her into his lap and she goes willingly, giggling when he kisses her neck.

She perches on his thighs like a trophy, a doll, a pretty princess doll with a crown observing her territory from her throne. Three tables over Stiles is staring at her, mouth half open and crammed full of onion rings.

Lydia smiles coyly at him and mouth _hi_ , wiggles a few fingers at him, and Stiles chokes and sprays food across the table.

"Get it together Stilinski!" Jackson shouts, and chucks an empty Gatorade bottle at Stiles' head.

The bottle misses but only because Scott sticks his hand out and catches it right in front of Stiles' face, an impressive demonstration of quick reflexes.

Jackson growls and jumps up from his chair. Lydia slides right off his lap and flies to the floor, landing hard on one wrist. At the other table Scott, Stiles and Isaac all leap to their feet, Allison literally gasps out loud and covers her mouth.

 _What is she doing on the floor? Get up!_

Lydia scrambles to her feet and gives Jackson a venomous glare. "I don't know what is going on but whatever _this_ is-" she gestures between Jackson and the other boys, who all look like they're ready to throw down - "this is _over_!"

The cafeteria is silent; everyone is staring at them.

" _Jackson_ ," Lydia says sharply.

He's fixated on Scott, upper lip curled into a snarl. He doesn't look at her, doesn't even flinch. He looks like he's a hair trigger away from throwing a punch. Lydia spins on her heel and stomps away, her hurt wrist cradled against her chest.

She doesn't start crying until she's halfway down the hallway, ignores the sound of the cafeteria door slamming shut and converse sneakers squeaking against the floor.

"Lydia!" It's Stiles, because of course it is, chasing her down the hallway.

"Leave me alone!" she shrieks without turning around.

"Lydia, c'mon, wait-"

"I said, leave me alone!" She runs away, doesn't stop until she's in the girl's bathroom and locked in a stall.

Lydia waits until the next class period has started to leave the bathroom. She half expects Stiles to be waiting outside the door for her - they have precalc right now together - but the hall is empty so Lydia slinks to the nurse's office without an audience.

She told him to leave her alone, and he listened. She should be relieved but strangely she feels disappointed. Now that she's calmed down she realizes she shouldn't have run away from him like that. Like a coward, Lydia thinks shamefully. Like a silly little girl.

Everyone at lunch saw and she can't face them yet, all those girls who stare at her with a mixture of envy and hatred, all those boys who stare at her legs and cleavage when she walks by them. She convinces the nurse she has a migraine and curls up on a cot in the dark, the ice pack the nurse gave her for her head wrapped around her wrist.

Allison is waiting by her locker when the final bell rings, hair pulled back and black jacket zipped all the way up to her white throat, like she means business.

"Hey," she says, her voice full of false-bright charm. "Study at my house?"

"Alright," Lydia agrees. She shrugs into her cream quilted sateen bomber jacket and carefully checks that she has the right books before shutting her locker and hiking her bag up on her shoulder.

Allison slides her arm in hers to link elbows. "Come on, I'll buy you a latte."

"If you want," Lydia agrees amicably.

Allison has the decency to wait a few hours, until they're back at the Argent's house spread out with their completed English lit homework on Allison's bed, an almost finished iced venti white mocha with almond milk on the nightstand, before interrogating her.

"Let me see it," Allison demands, reaching for her wrist.

"It's nothing," Lydia snaps, holding her wrist protectively against her chest.

"Lydia-"

"It was an accident!"

The worst part is how disappointed Allison looks. "Lydia, I'm not stupid, okay? I know what's going on."

Lydia blinks. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

Allison groans and flops back on her bed. "Why are you acting like this is no big deal?"

"Like what is no big deal?"

"Lydia." Allison's voice sounds strange, high pitched and tight. "Do you really think people don't see what's going on with you and Jackson?"

"Allison, I told you it was an accident, you're being dramatic."

Allison's mouth drops open. "He _hurt_ you!"

"It was an _accident_!"

"Yeah, _this_ time!"

Lydia pulls away, suddenly feeling sick. "What is _that_ supposed to mean?"

"Hey Alli- oh Lydia, I didn't know you were over." Allison's dad has opened her door without knocking, leaning casually against the door frame.

Lydia rolls on her side, flipping her hair over her shoulder, and smiles brilliantly. "Hi Mr. Argent!"

"Hi sweetheart." Mr. Argent gives her a warm fatherly smile. "Allison honey, Mom and I are going to order Italian soon, let us know what you want. Is Lydia staying for dinner?"

"She can't," Allison says, before Lydia can answer. His dad gives her a little look of surprise but Allison raises a defiant eyebrow at him and he shrugs and leaves the room.

"Rude," Lydia comments lightly.

"Do you have to flirt with my dad?" Allison complains. "It's gross."

Lydia sits up and starts packing up her book bag. "Face it Allison, your dad's hot."

"Lydia." Allison groans and writhes around on the bed dramatically. "That's _so_ gross."

Lydia grins evilly. "You already said that."

Allison gets off the bed, straightening her shirt and fixing her hair, pouting. "Well it is."

Lydia slips her feet back into her shoes and pulls on her jacket. "It's not my fault he's a total silver fox."

"I officially hate you," Allison grumbles as she follows Lydia out of her room and down the stairs.

"Hate all you want, I speak the truth."

"Ugh, whatever." Allison crosses the foyer and opens the front door. "Look, just - be careful with Jackson, okay?"

Lydia sighs heavily. "I'm fine."

"Lydia, please. Scott says-"

" _Scott_ says? You talked to Scott about me? About me and Jackson?"

Allison's forehead scrunches up. "No, he just - come on Lydia, you know what Jackson is like to Scott."

"So now it's about how he treats Scott?" Lydia retorts.

"I don't like how he treats _you_."

"Well it's a good thing you're not dating him, then."

Allison drops her head, defeated. "Come on, I'll drive you home."

"Don't bother." Lydia stomps out the front door and slams it shut behind her. She gets to the end of the driveway and sinks down on the curb, her injured wrist cradled in her left hand.

She sits there, staring blankly out at the street.

It didn't used to be like this. She and Jackson used to be easy; they used to make sense. Back when Scott and Stiles were barely hovering peripherally in the background of her life. Before Allison moved to Beacon Hills last year, before she and Scott started dating.

Before Lydia started questioning everything.

After a while she gets up and starts to walk. She lives in the same suburban section of Beacon Hills as Allison; all the houses are large and display manicured lawns, leafy trees with dripping leaves from the earlier rain.

She heads for her house, fifteen blocks away, tolerable when Lydia's wearing her Nikes and the sun is out, but today she's wearing little grey wedge booties and a baby blue romper under her bomber jacket and the wind is blowing like it's about to storm.

Lydia frowns, looking up at the overcast sky. It rained all morning while she was in school but she doesn't remember the weather report saying anything about afternoon thunderstorms.

She shivers and walks faster, pulling the cuffs of her jacket sleeves over her hands.

What Lydia needs is a plan. She's brilliant; she should be able to fix this. Get Jackson back under her control so they can continue to be Beacon Hills' star power couple, win lacrosse games and awards, their future unfurling in front of them like a red carpet.

Lydia imagines a Field Medal shining next to a lacrosse trophy, graduating Summa Cum Laude from the Ivy of her choice, because she and Jackson are winners. That's what Allison doesn't understand. They belong together.

Don't they?

The problem is Scott. Everything was fine last year, before Scott made first line and became majorly popular overnight. He's the anomaly, something must have happened to him, or he's involved in something. There has to be a reason for Jackson's newfound obsession with the kid.

She needs to figure out what's going on with Scott.

And wonders suddenly, about Allison, if she knows something, if she's involved too. Considers for the first time the possibility that the girl who Lydia thought was her best friend ever since she moved here last year is a liar.

Is that why Allison told her to be careful? Because she knows something Lydia doesn't?

The sound of a car engine makes her jump and turn, startled, and she's somehow completely unsurprised to see Stiles' blue Jeep pull up to the curb next to her. Lydia waits only for a moment before stepping up to the car and opening the passenger side door.

"You stop for all the girls?" she teases, squaring her shoulders so he can't tell how cold she is.

"Do you ever dress for the weather?" Stiles counters. His eyes roam down over her bare legs and Lydia flushes.

"I wasn't planning on walking," she says, the wind whipping her hair around her face.

Stiles sighs. "Come on," he says. "I'll drive you home."

She swings herself up into the Jeep and slams the door closed with her good arm, careful to hold her injured wrist close to her body. She drops her book bag on the floor next to her feet and buckles herself in, aware of Stiles sitting next to her, the car still in park.

She leans back in her seat and arches an eyebrow at him. _Well?_

He checks his mirrors, signals, shifts the car into drive and pulls back onto the street, fingers tapping against the steering wheel. "Are you okay?" he asks, eyes on the road.

Lydia stares out the window, clutching her throbbing wrist. "I'm fine. What are you doing here, anyway?"

"You live like four blocks from me actually," he explains. "You're on my way home."

"Oh."

His fingers drum on the steering wheel in time to the music on the radio. "You want to talk about what happened at lunch?"

"Not particularly."

Stiles slows down for a stop sign. "Look, I know it's none of my business but...are you sure you know what you're doing with Jackson?"

Lydia stares at him. How dare Stiles ask her about Jackson, he barely knows her. "He's my boyfriend," she says stiffly.

"I know that," he says. There's something sharp in his voice that wasn't there a second ago. It's interesting.

"What's going on with Jackson and Scott?" she asks, eager to shift the topic away from herself.

"Scott and Jackson? Nothing's going on between Scott and Jackson, except for, you know, ridiculous alpha male posturing. Why, what do you think is going on between Scott and Jackson?"

"Well," Lydia says coolly. "Jackson likes to be the best. Scott is in his way. And there's the fact that Scott somehow magically became as good at lacrosse as Jackson is overnight, which, let's face it, is highly improbable."

Stiles makes a choking sound. "What are you talking about?"

Lydia narrows her eyes at him. "What _are_ you talking about?" He's Scott's best friend, he's also on the lacrosse team, he has to have noticed Scott's literally unbelievable ascent to first line.

Stiles signals and turns onto her street, his eyes scanning between the road and his mirrors, looking everywhere but her. "I just think you should be careful, that's all."

Allison's earlier warning comes back to her and Lydia's stomach twists. "I've been hearing that a lot lately," she comments.

Stiles raises an eyebrow and pulls over in front of her house. "Yeah?"

Lydia nods, fiddling with her seatbelt. "Allison."

"Ah," Stiles says. "If I were you I'd consider taking her advice then."

"She doesn't know what she's talking about," Lydia dismisses.

"She's your best friend," he argues. "She cares about you."

"And why do you care, exactly?"

Stiles eyes widen, his hand flexing around the gear shift. "We're friends, right?"

It frightens her, how vulnerable he sounds, how unsure. Like he's handed over all of his power to her.

She nods gently because she's too tired to lie, because she can feel it - she's losing Jackson and with it everything she's worked so hard for.

There's a boy in a car with her, and all he's asking of her is friendship. It would be so easy: to give up, give in, open herself up and let Stiles stick his hands inside and take out everything broken and wrong.

Let him put her back together into something purified, holy, saved.

Something beautiful.

"You should know something." His voice is trembling but she doesn't know if it's from nerves or passion. "I care about my friends. I...I care about you, Lydia."

"Well you shouldn't," she says, and jumps out of the car and runs up the front walk and lets herself inside her house, pretending not to notice that Stiles waits until she gets inside safely to drive away.

/

Allison is waiting for her at her locker in the morning, brandishing a latte like a white flag. "Upside-down caramel machiatto."

"With-"

"Half almond milk and half coconut milk." Allison all but shoves the drink into Lydia's hand. "I thought the barista was going to cry when I ordered it."

She raises an eyebrow at Allison. "Is this an apology latte?"

Allison flushes. "I just feel really awful about how you left yesterday," she says earnestly. "I'm your best friend, I should be supporting you, not judging you."

Lydia takes a sip of her latte and sighs in delight. _Heavenly_. "You're forgiven."

Allison smiles hopefully. "Then you'll sit with me at lunch today?"

"Alli" -

"Please, Lydia? I have a French test eighth period, I could really use a study buddy."

Lydia narrows her eyes at Allison. "You're practically fluent in French."

"I'm still not as good as you," Allison says modestly.

Lydia cups her drink, the warmth sinking into her palms. She knows Allison is bullshitting her but she still appreciates the farce, that Allison is at least giving her an excuse, an out.

"Please?" Allison wheedles. "Please, Lydia?"

Since Allison starting dating Scott she sits at his lunch table.

Scott sits with Stiles.

"Fine," she decides. "But only because we're studying."

Allison slings her arm around Lydia's shoulders and kisses her on the cheek. "Thank you!"

Lydia rolls her eyes but she lets Allison walk down the hallway with her arm around her, safe against her shoulder, like a bodyguard.

/

Allison's waiting for her at the entrance to the cafeteria at the beginning of their lunch period, like she doesn't really trust that Lydia would keep her word. Lydia sighs to herself and follows Allison through the lunch line, carefully selects a pre-packaged salad and a bottle of water.

They've beaten Scott and Stiles to the lunch table. Lydia sits next to Allison and opens her French textbook, pretending she doesn't see Jackson watching her from across the cafeteria. They haven't talked since she stormed out of lunch yesterday and Lydia is dreading the inevitable.

"What are you doing here?" Lydia looks up to see Stiles staring at her from the other side of the table.

Next to him Scott coughs awkwardly, looking embarrassed, and pushes Stiles down in a seat next to him.

"Sitting," Lydia says shortly. "Is that a problem?"

"N-no," Stiles stutters. "Not at all, you can always sit here, you can sit here whenever you want-"

"Stiles!" Scott gives him a beseeching look and Stiles curls into himself, lips pressed together.

Lydia rolls her eyes and goes back to studying. Predictably, Allison only lasts eight minutes before she shuts her book in favor of flirting with Scott. Lydia continues to study, her head ducked against the accusing glances Jackson keeps throwing at her from where he's sitting with half the lacrosse team.

A few minutes later Isaac shows up, hunched over, clutching a sad squished pb&j in one hand, his sweatshirt hood flipped over his hair. "Hey," he mumbles, hovering near the empty seat to Scott's right.

Scott looks up at Isaac and immediately looks concerned. "Dude, are you okay?"

Isaac just tilts his head, like, _not really_ , and his sweatshirt hood falls back. His bottom lip is split right open, clotted blood clinging to the torn skin, and his whole mouth is swollen, like someone punched him.

"Oh my god," Allison gasps. "Isaac, what happened?"

Isaac glances at Scott and back down at the empty seat. "Can I sit here?"

"Yeah, of course," Scott says impatiently. "Dude, what happened to your face?"

Isaac sinks into the seat next to Scott, his long pale fingers picking at the plastic wrapping on the sandwich. "It's nothing. Walked into a door."

" _You_ _walked into a door?_ " Lydia says in disbelief, before she can stop herself, because, _please_.

Across from her Stiles twitches, looking very quickly between her and Isaac, his forehead wrinkled, like he's trying to connect invisible dots between the two of them.

Isaac flinches. "It's not a big deal," he whispers, but his hands are shaking.

Allison reaches over to pat his arm and Isaac recoils so quickly he almost falls backwards out of his seat.

Allison's eyes widen and Lydia catches her shoot a worried look at Scott. "I'll go get you some ice," she says sympathetically, and jumps up from the table before Isaac can tell her not to.

Stiles gets Scott and Isaac distracted with a story about some stupid thing Greenberg did at practice yesterday and by the time Allison gets back all three boys are deep in a lacrosse spiral. Lydia manages to work through the rest of the lunch period, taking her time to pack up when the bell rings, waiting Jackson out so she doesn't have to talk to him.

Stiles stands up, backpack slung over his shoulder. "Walk to precalc together?"

"Sure." Lydia comes around the table to him and they walk out together into the busy hallway.

"Look," Stiles says as they turn right towards the math lab. "I'm sorry about yesterday."

Lydia sighs. "It's fine. You caught me in a bad mood, Allison and I had just gotten into it."

Stiles glances sideways at her. "About what?"

"Jackson," she admits quietly, staring straight ahead.

Stiles' jaw locks and he doesn't say anything until they get to their classroom. He stops just outside the door and turns to look at her. Lydia presses herself against the wall, the feeling she had that night when he drove her home from Danny's party returning.

Like there's nowhere to hide from him.

"Did you get your wrist looked at?" he asks pointedly.

Her eyes widen. "It's fine. It was an accident."

A muscle in Stiles' jaw twitches. "You've been having a lot of accidents lately."

She steels herself against the implied accusation. "It doesn't even hurt anymore."

It doesn't hurt because this morning Lydia snuck into her mother's bathroom while she was in the kitchen making coffee and took one of her leftover hydrocodone pills from an old surgery, swallowed it and went into her room and selected a cream knit sweater with long sleeves that cover her swollen wrist.

Stiles glances at the clock on the wall; ninety seconds until the bell rings. "Can I take a look at it?"

She gapes at him. "No."

"Lydia, quit messing around, let me look at your wrist."

She crosses her arms defensively over her chest. "What part of _no_ don't you understand?"

Stiles huffs and shoves a hand through his hair. He used to buzz it but he grew it out over the summer and it's - cute. Thick and kind of messy, sexy in an undone sort of way.

"At least tell me you're icing it," he says sternly.

Lydia rolls her eyes. "What kind of moron do you think I am?"

Stiles' eyes are soft and sad. "I don't think you're a moron."

The bell rings and Lydia jumps; Stiles steadies her with a hand on her shoulder. Instead of stiffening she melts into his touch, lets herself lean again his side.

She's just so tired. Tired of lying, tired of making excuses.

"So we're okay?" Stiles asks. "You and I, we're good?"

For a split second she almost does it - opens her mouth and confesses. Admits that she's lost control, that she doesn't know what she's doing, that she needs help.

But she's Lydia Martin and she's never asked for help from anybody. Pride may come before the fall but Lydia's never fallen down in her life and she's not about to start now.

She gives him her brightest, bravest smile. "We're fine, Stiles. Everything is fine."

/

Jackson catches her in the hallway between sixth and seventh period, one of his hands spreading flat between her shoulder blades and guiding her into a little alcove.

"What do you want?" she snaps. "I'm going to be late for gym."

Jackson snorts. "Like you give a shit about PE."

"Jackson" -

"You sat with Allison at lunch."

"She wanted to study for French together." Lydia twirls her hair and pouts, like she's already bored.

Jackson sighs, the hand on her back gently fisting the knit fabric of her sweater. "I'm sorry about yesterday," he says quietly.

Lydia stands very still. Jackson rarely apologizes, about anything. He must feel guilty.

"Whatever, it's fine," she says. "Let go of me, I'm really going to be late."

Jackson frowns but he pulls his hand away. "Come to practice later?"

"Alright," she agrees, because he apologized, he feels bad, he still loves her.

Doesn't he?

He bends down slowly and kisses her like she's a flower, a snowflake, something delicate and ephemeral. His body so close to hers and it feels like falling, or drowning, like lying down in a blanket of snow and going to sleep.

The bell ring and Lydia jerks away, eyes flying open.

"Oh no," Jackson murmurs. "You're late."

/

Lydia doesn't bother going to class after that, she goes to the library instead and heads for the history section. She has a midterm history paper she wants to start researching and finds a few different books on Russian history, the Romanov family, and the Bolsheviks, and sits at an empty table.

She finds hand sanitizer in her cosmetics case and rubs it on compulsively before opening the first book of the stack. She feels dirty, imagining the way Jackson had grabbed her sweater, treated her like a thing to be moved and manipulated however he likes.

He made her late. On _purpose_. Just because he wanted to.

Like Lydia is nothing but a toy to him.

She closes her eyes and thinks about Stiles instead, how she told him not to touch her and he _didn't_ , how wide-eyed and earnest he was when he apologized, when he hadn't done anything but be concerned for her.

Like he really does care about her, like he said yesterday.

Like something pure, something real. She thinks about Stiles pushing a peanut butter cup into her hands, Stiles giving her his jacket, how his face had lit up in the hallway just because she smiled at him.

Lydia exhales slowly and closes one hand around the other wrist, pretending it's Stiles' hand, his long fingers wrapping around her bones, holding her still, keeping her grounded to earth.

Like an anchor.


	3. Chapter 3

Lydia reads from her newly checked out Russian history book next to Allison on the bleachers during lacrosse practice. She's already decided to write her midterm paper on the Romanov princesses, she pours over black and white photos of them and takes careful notes of the Bolshevik takeover.

The soldiers told the last royal family they were leading them to safety when in fact they were leading them to their execution. The first round of bullets didn't kill the four sisters and neither did the soldiers' bayonets, they had to be shot in the head. The princesses had sewed their diamonds into the bodices of their dresses, effectively making them bulletproof.

Lydia strokes her ribs through her sweater as she takes notes, tries to imagine a massacre like that, an entire family, a dynasty, wiped right off the map.

Next her Allison gasps softly, probably reacting to whatever amazing play Scott has just executed. "Lydia, look."

Lydia doesn't look up from her book, tracing their names: Olga, Tatianna, Marie, Anastasia. "What?"

"Oh no," Allison murmurs ominously.

Lydia sighs and reluctantly tears her gaze from her book. Practice is over; all the guys are trickling off the field. Only five players remain: Jackson and Danny are facing Scott and Stiles, Isaac inexplicably in the middle. Lydia can only see Jackson's back but his hands are clenched into fists and he's looming menacingly at Isaac.

"What's going on?" Lydia asks Allison.

Allison's hands are twitching in her lap. "I don't know."

Jackson starts yelling. Lydia can't hear exactly what he's saying, something about _mine_ and _I want it_ and _I swear, McCall_.

Scott yells something back, hands flying wildly in the air, Stiles hovering behind him, ready to step in. Jackson breaks away from Danny and lunges at Isaac, checking him hard with his shoulder to get him out of his way. Isaac's still got pads on but his helmet is off and he goes flying back, hitting his head on the ground and collapsing in a heap.

Allison gasps loudly, her hand covering her mouth, and Lydia winces, remembering Mr. Lahey, how his hand smacked against the back of Isaac's head so hard his whole body had flown forward.

Jackson takes advantage of Scott and Stiles' horrified expressions as they watch Isaac curl up in a ball, _moaning_ , and he jumps on top of Scott, tackling him to the grassy field.

"Oh my god!" Allison jumps to her feet and starts to run down the bleachers. "Scott!"

Scott gets in one good punch before Stiles and Danny jump on top of him and Jackson and rip them apart from each other. Isaac is still curled up in the fetal position on the ground a few feet away where Jackson dropped him, and Jackson and Scott are both struggling to get at each other again. Scott's hands are curled into fists and he's screaming, not even words, just these angry growling vocalizations.

"Come on!" Jackson taunts, struggling against Danny. "Show me what you can do!"

"Scott, no!" Allison screams. "Stop!"

Scott's head snaps up at the sound of her voice. As soon as he sees Allison he stops struggling in Stiles' hold and sags against him, arms coming up in the air in surrender, hands still curled into fists.

Lydia hurries after Allison, quickly running down the bleachers with her book tucked under her arm. When she gets to the bottom Allison suddenly whirls around and grabs her by the wrist. "Stay here, I'm going to see what's going on."

Lydia stares at her, incredulous. "Excuse me?"

"I said stay there!" Allison orders, and her voice is so sharp and high that Lydia finds herself obeying, watching Allison run onto the field without her.

Danny is taking Scott's surrender as an opportunity to convince Jackson to walk away. They come off the field together with Danny's arm slung tightly around Jackson's shoulders, one hand spread over his chest as Danny whispers in his ear.

Lydia watches him with wide eyes, like she's seeing him for the first time. Like she's only understanding now that he can be cruel. That he _chooses_ to be cruel.

That the thing inside him - that dark coiled thing, that flash of coldness in his eyes isn't a character flaw, a badly coded piece of DNA, but who he is. Who he chooses to be.

All those times when his fingers pinched a little too hard, all those bruises and bite marks and her swollen wrist - Lydia always interpreted it as passion, aggression, messy but ultimately nothing to fear - were those just choices too?

Choices made with an intention: to hurt, to break, to cause pain.

It's like she doesn't know her own boyfriend anymore. Maybe she never did.

Jackson doesn't even glance at her when he and Danny pass her on their way to the locker room.

On the field Scott in on his knees in front of Isaac, his hands cupped over the back of his head, talking too quietly for Lydia to hear. A few feet away Stiles and Allison are having a heated conversion, judging by the way Stiles' arms are flailing as he gesticulates.

Scott gets Isaac up and Lydia watches him stumble, not quite able to catch himself, grabbing onto Scott to stay upright. Lydia sees Allison sneak a concerned look at Isaac before turning back to Stiles and saying something, jabbing her finger at him for emphasis before flipping her hair off her shoulder and stomping back to where Lydia is waiting for her, utterly mystified.

"Let's go," Allison says tightly.

"Allison"-

Allison pinches the bridge of her nose. "I'm not in the mood to argue with you, please, let's just go, okay?"

Lydia glances back at the field. Scott is trying to examine Isaac's head again but Isaac looks like he's pulling away while Stiles paces back and forth.

"Allison, what the hell is going on?"

Allison looks grim. "I don't know."

/

"Why are you with him?" Allison asks softly, when they're parked in front of Lydia's house.

Lydia rubs her fingers against her temples. "I thought we weren't judging."

"I'm not judging." Allison sounds defensive, and frustrated. "I'm just trying to understand."

Lydia swallows down the feeling that Allison is lying, that she knows exactly what happened on the lacrosse field. "I love him."

"You love him." Allison gives her a look of total disbelief.

Lydia bristles. "Of course I love him, he's my boyfriend!"

"Sometimes I think you don't know what love is." Allison's voice is distant, she's staring out her window, away from Lydia.

"And you do?" Lydia snipes back before she can stop herself.

Allison looks like she's about to cry. "I know you've never looked at Jackson the way I look at Scott. I know you don't talk about him the way I talk about Scott. I know that you didn't tell him when we went out with Scott and Stiles the other week."

"He doesn't like it when I spend time with Scott. Wonder why that is?" Lydia mocks.

"This isn't about Scott," Allison mutters.

"Then quit comparing your relationship to mine! I'm not you, I'm not naive and blinded by puppy love!"

Allison's eyes go wide and then she tips her head back against the seat wearily. "Wow," she says slowly. "So that's what you really think about Scott and I. Okay."

Lydia wilts. She knows she gets mean when she's stressed but she rarely takes it out on Allison. "I didn't mean it like that."

Allison's eyes narrow. "At least he doesn't hurt me."

Lydia plays with the edge of her sleeve. "It's not like that."

Allison sounds like she's about to cry. "So what's it like?"

It's like something private, is what's it's like, something secret and shameful. "You wouldn't understand."

"You'd never tell anyone if you needed help, would you?"

"I don't need help." The words are bitter on her tongue.

"But what if you did?" Allison sniffs delicately. "What if he really hurts you?"

Lydia curls her fingers around her injured wrist. It still aches but it's getting better. "He wouldn't."

"But what if he does?" Allison protests.

"I don't need you to save me," Lydia tells her.

Allison's eyes flutter shut. "You know that I would though, right?"

Lydia stares out the window. "Yeah, I know."

"Lydia" -

"Look, I chose him, okay? I made my choice."

Allison blinks and a single tear rolls down her cheek. "So choose something else."

/

In the morning Scott McCall is waiting at her locker, gym bag slung over one shoulder and backpack on the other, wearing his Beacon Hills lacrosse team hoodie and a pair of jeans, holding two paper cups of coffee.

Lydia drives to school every day with her mother, and because her mother is an administrator they always get to school at least half an hour before homeroom starts, which means that Scott must have specifically come to school early to see her.

Lydia steels herself and walks down the hall to her locker, the heels of her Rag and Bone black leather ankle books click clicking across the floor.

"Can I help you?" she asks politely, stepping around him and unlocking her locker.

"Allison says you like these." Scott hands over one of the coffee cups.

Lydia shrugs off her grey cashmere cardigan and accepts the coffee. Her wrist doesn't hurt anymore but there's still a mark so she's wearing a long sleeved ballet pink bodysuit under her skinny jeans.

She squints at the Sharpie ink scrawled down the side of the cup: _sugar free vanilla latte with coconut milk._

Lydia takes out the books she needs for first and second period. "So, are you trying to bribe me with coffee or are you just softening me up?"

Scott squints hopefully. "Uh...the second?"

She sighs, shoulders her book bag and slams her locker shut. "What do you want, Scott?"

Scott suddenly looks deathly serious. "You need to break up with Jackson."

Lydia takes a menacing step towards him. "You know, I'm getting really tired of everyone telling me what to do."

Scott looks a little shame-faced but he also squares his shoulders, like he feels bad about this but he's not going to back down. "We're just trying to protect you."

"From what?"

His eyes flick down to her covered wrist. "You know what."

She scowls. "What happens between me and Jackson is none of your business, any of you. I'm not some damn princess who needs to be locked in a tower!"

"No one is saying that," Scott says calmly. "We just don't want you to get hurt."

"And you care why, exactly?"

Scott gives her the full-on puppy dog eyes. "I don't like it when people get hurt. You're Allison's best friend, is it really that hard to believe that I care about what happens to you?"

Lydia remembers suddenly: freshman year biology, Scott sitting next to her on a stool crying into his folded arms when they had to dissect a frog, crying because the frogs were bred specifically for the purpose of being killed and dissected by fourteen year old biology students and it was _just so sad_ , he had sobbed, the sleeves of his hoodie soaked with tears.

Sweet, sensitive Scott McCall, co-captain of the lacrosse team, cries over dead animals.

Scott wants to save her. But he said _we_ , and Lydia knows enough to intuit that he must mean Stiles, and Allison.

Lydia doesn't want to be a girl who needs saving.

"I can handle Jackson," she says eventually.

Scott gives her a look like he's disappointed in her. "Maybe you used to," he concedes. "But not anymore."

"Scott" -

"You know I'm right," he interrupts.

She doesn't know what to say. He is right. There comes a point in every debate where the loser must concede his loss or be made to look a fool forever.

"Lydia," Scott says softly. "I know you care about him but..."

He takes a step towards her and she jumps back, catching herself on the lockers, her latte almost spilling. Scott's eyes widen, he drops his arms and stares down at his fingers for a second. She feels privately horrified at herself; she's known Scott since kindergarten. She has no reason to react to him this way.

Like he's a predator.

"I'm not going to hurt you, Lydia," he says slowly. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you."

She wills herself to stop shaking. "You don't scare me."

She can tell from his face that he doesn't believe her, not for a second. "You don't have to be afraid, Lydia."

She feels like she's going to cry. "I know that."

"Then let me help you. We all just want to help you."

She swallows past the lump in her throat. Imagines telling Scott the truth, imagines telling him the things she lets Jackson do to her in the dark, all the ways she lets him bend and stretch her, just to find the exact point at which she starts to break.

She thinks about Stiles, if he'd still have that silly schoolboy crush on her if he knew how dirty she was inside, ruthless, cold, how she let someone mark up her body just to prove to herself that she was real, that she belonged to someone.

"Lydia," he pleads. "This is killing Allison."

Lydia pulls back like he's slapped her. Scott knows using Allison against her would hurt.

"I'm sorry," he says, and he really does sound apologetic. "I just want to help you, I promise."

Her control breaks." Don't you get it?" she snarls. "You can't help me!" She turns on her heel and stomps away, and Scott doesn't follow.

/

Jackson isn't in class all morning. Something is obviously going on with Scott and Stiles; they talk twice as much in class as usual and keep giving her not-all-all inconspicuous glances. Allison is jumpy and distracted. Lydia has to do their entire chemistry lab by herself because Allison keeps mixing up the chemicals.

"What the hell is going on with everyone?" Lydia hisses, when Allison almost lights her sleeve on fire. Chemistry is the perfect class to talk in; ever since Harris left they've had a rotation of subs and everyone is so loud during experiments it's unlikely to be overheard.

"Nothing," Allison mumbles, pulling her hands away from the table. She's paler than usual and there are circles under her eyes.

Lydia's fingers itch for a tube of concealer. "You know, I don't appreciate you sending your boyfriend to do your dirty work," she whispers, moving the Bunsen burner to create a safe distance between it and Allison.

Allison blinks innocently. "What?"

Lydia purses her lips. "Are you seriously telling me you had no idea that _your_ boyfriend came to school early today just to convince me to break up with _my_ boyfriend?" Her voice is calm but her tone is cold like ice.

Allison is gaping at her. "He _what?_ "

A book slams shut behind them and Lydia and Allison both whirl around at the sound. Scott and Stiles are standing two tables behind them, staring at them. Scott's eyes are huge and Stiles looks inexplicably horrified about something.

 _What_ , Lydia mouths at them, and Scott and Stiles both twitch and look away like they've been caught committing a felony.

"You really didn't know?" Lydia whispers to Allison.

Allison winds a curl around her finger, looking back over her shoulder at Scott for a second. "No, he- he just said he wanted to talk to you, I didn't know he was going to ask _that_."

"Well he did."

"I'll talk to him. I'm sorry, he shouldn't have done that." Allison winces and looks around the classroom. "Where is Jackson, anyway?"

Lydia shrugs lightly, like she doesn't care. "I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"Why do you care?" Lydia asks sharply. "I thought you wanted me to break up with him."

"Those weren't my exact words," Allison mumbles.

"But it's what you meant."

Allison looks away and doesn't argue.

/

Lydia doesn't go to lunch. It would almost be worth it, because of Stiles, but she can't bring herself to face Allison and Scott together. She can't get it out of her head, Scott McCall begging her to let him save her.

She imagines it, what would've happened if she had said yes. Held out her arms to him and asked him to rescue her. If he would've held her the way she's seen him hold Allison, like she's something beloved. If he would whisper kind words in her ear, make empty promises to protect her.

It's his fault, she reminds herself sharply. None of this wouldn't have happened if Scott was still a nobody on the sidelines.

She shouldn't want it anyway. She's Lydia Martin, she's a queen. She doesn't need to be rescued.

She goes to the nurse's office and gives her a convincing grimace, clutching at her head.

"Another headache huh?" The nurse looks skeptical but she slaps an ice pack into Lydia's hand. "Got a lot of those today."

She points Lydia towards the back room where the cots are, the lights dimmed. Isaac Lahey is curled up on one of the cots, a disposable ice pack wrapped around the base of his skull. Lydia winces, remembering yesterday afternoon, how Isaac's head had snapped back as he'd fallen, that vulnerable halo of curls slammed against the ground.

Isaac raises an eyebrow at her. "Headache?"

"Something like that." She kicks off her shoes and hops up on a cot next to him. It's dark in the little room; they're the only students present. It feels a little like being at a sleepover, whispering in twin beds in the dark.

Isaac hums in acknowledgment but then he winces, eyes shutting, and reaches around to move the ice pack over to his split lip.

Lydia can't help it. She's curious. "What really happened to your mouth?"

Isaac doesn't look at her. "It doesn't matter."

Lydia tilts her head at that. His face is cut open for everyone to see, proof written in blood. Jackson would never do something like that to her, so obvious, no subtly at all. Reckless.

"Lets say that it does," she counters. "Hypothetically."

Isaac's eyes glow faintly in the dim light. His skin is so light, like hers, it makes the scab on his lip look garish, violent. "Why do you care? Hypothetically?"

It's a good question, one she doesn't have a real answer to, not one that she's willing to share anyway. She hardly knows Isaac, remembers Jackson's expression when she asked him about Isaac and his dad.

But there's something in Isaac she recognizes, something deep and soft and bruised. She thinks Isaac would understand, about Jackson, how it's not as simple as right or wrong.

How being hurt can feel so much like love.

"Why don't you tell someone?" she asks softly.

Isaac snorts. "Why don't you?"

She folds her legs up to her chest and links her arms around her knees. "It's not the same thing."

Isaac looks disdainful. "Does he tell you he's _sorry_ later? Does he tell you he _loves_ you?"

Lydia swallows a wave of nausea at the nasty tone in his voice. "You don't know anything about us."

Isaac shoots her a look of disbelief. "Do you not remember what he did to me yesterday or are you just pretending it didn't happen?"

"I'm not blind," she snaps.

"Just deaf and dumb?" he counters.

She rolls her eyes. "Aren't you witty."

Isaac switches his ice pack back to his head. "Not really," he mumbles.

Lydia sighs. "He shouldn't have done that," she concedes.

Isaac shrugs. "I was in his way."

She blinks, a little shocked. Wonders if Isaac is used to that, being pushed and shoved around like an old piece of furniture. If that's how he sees himself, something old and battered, a broken thing that no one wants.

"That doesn't make it okay," she says.

Isaac's laugh is so bitter it sounds like something else entirely. "I think my dad might disagree with that."

Lydia's eyes widen at the direct reference but Isaac says, "I know you saw the other day. When you were at Jackson's. I saw you get in his car."

"Oh," she murmurs, looking away, suddenly feeling embarrassed on his behalf.

She doesn't know what she's doing here - lying in the dark, trading secrets with Isaac Lahey. She's supposed to be figuring out what to do about Scott and Jackson, she's supposed to be out there ruling the school and setting fashion trends.

But she's not. She's here, and it feels strangely safe, ensconced in a little room with a boy who bleeds, who hurts, who knows what it's like to wake up in the morning and figure out how to hide the bruises.

"Aren't you tired of it?" she whispers. She knows he'll understand what she means - tired of lying, of always being on guard, of being careful, of trying to contain an explosion between her palms.

"Yeah," Isaac whispers back. "Sometimes. Aren't you?"

"Sometimes," she confesses.

Isaac presses a fingertip to his bottom lip; Lydia can see a dark bead of blood get wiped away. "Are you gonna break up with him?" he inquires.

Lydia raises an eyebrow. "Why would you ask me that?"

"I heard Scott and Stiles talking about it," he mumbles.

She resists the urge to groan. "Of course you did."

"You're lucky," he says. "They care about you."

There's something strange about his tone. Like he's envious of her.

"They're your friends too," she offers. She's not actually sure about that but they're all on the lacrosse team together and Isaac sits with them at lunch. They're at least friend _ly_.

Isaac rubs his lips again. "I don't really have any friends."

"Stop that," she admonishes. "You'll make it worse."

"I thought you didn't care."

She thinks about Scott, how gentle he was with her this morning even though she was being a defensive, raging bitch. She could be like that for Isaac, Lydia thinks. If she wanted to. She and Isaac both hurt but Lydia knows it's not the same, not at all.

"I'll be seventeen soon, anyway," Isaac says. "I'm almost out."

"So you have a plan?" She doesn't bother to question herself as to why she's asking.

Apparently she does care. Alert the press everyone; Lydia Martin has feelings.

"Yeah." Isaac's voice is dry and crackling, like kindling. "Make it to eighteen alive."

Lydia blinks in the darkness and pulls her phone out of her bag. She has a few questioning texts from Allison, but nothing from Jackson. She sighs and locks her phone, slides it back in her bag and flops down on the cot.

"You should tell him to let it go." Isaac sounds drowsy, like he's going to fall asleep.

Lydia rubs her eyes with the heels of her hands, suddenly feeling the same allure. It's a response to stress, sometimes the brain will completely override the body and shut down, a way to escape trauma. "What are you talking about?"

"He's never going to give it to him," Isaac whispers.

Lydia narrows her eyes in concern. "Do you have a concussion?"

Isaac's eyes flare bright in the dim light. "What?"

"You're not making sense. Confusion is a common side affect of head injuries."

Isaac stares at her with wide eyes. "Oh...um...no, I'm just. I'm just tired. I'm, um, gonna try to sleep until practice."

It's a good idea, she's tired too, but she's not the kind of person who can fall asleep anywhere. Lydia rolls over on her side, eyes wide open in the dark, listening to Isaac's breathing level out and slow down.

She thinks about Scott again. How he offered to help her. The way his face had crumpled with worry when he saw Isaac's mouth. How he's always touches Allison with the most careful reverence, like Allison is an angel, a piece of art, something delicate and priceless.

 _I'm not going to hurt you._

Lydia lies there in the dark and considers for the first time that she's not as brilliant as she secretly thinks she is, that maybe, possibly, she's made a mistake.

Considers that maybe, just maybe, she made the wrong choice.

And remembers what Allison said, and tries to imagine it, wonders if she can really do it, if it's as easy as her best friend made it sound.

 _Choose something else._


	4. Chapter 4

Lydia waits out the rest of the school day in the nurse's office with Isaac. When the final bell rings Isaac jacknifes awake and rolls off the cot, jams his feet in his shoes and hightails it out to go to practice without so much as a glance back at her.

Lydia takes her time, slips her feet back into her pumps and takes the stairs up to the library, pushing against the crowd of students going down to the first floor. She spends almost two hours at a back table near the windows working on her history paper, ignoring Allison's questioning texts about where she disappeared to after chemistry.

When Allison doesn't stop Lydia texts her back, tersely explaining that she's fine, she's studying, no, she doesn't need a ride home, and turns her phone off. Lydia wonders if Jackson showed up for practice and doesn't leave the library until 5:30, when practice is over, just in case.

She doesn't want to see Jackson. It's not that she's scared, she just doesn't know what she's going to say yet. Is half afraid that she'll panic and do it, break up with him, just to get everyone off her freaking ass about it.

She trudges her way back to her locker, the arches of her feet aching from her four inch heels. There's pressure building behind her eyes like a cluster headache; suddenly all she longs for is to go home with her mother, take a bath, wash all the product out of her hair and scrub her makeup off.

She's turning the corner down the hall to her locker when she sees him, only a few lockers past hers, wearing his lacrosse sweatshirt and a pair of track pants, lacrosse stick strapped to his backpack.

"Stiles!" Lydia calls out, and slams her mouth shut because she did not mean to say his name out loud, what is she _doing?_

Stiles whirls around, his eyes widening in surprise. "Lydia, hey!" He quickly walks back towards her as she walks forward, meeting at her locker. "Everything okay?"

She tries to smile but she can't quite get her mouth to do it. "I'm fine, why?"

"You look sad." Stiles reaches out and curls his long fingers over her forearm and that's all it takes, she crumples back against her locker, eyes squeezing shut so she doesn't cry.

"Hey." Stiles' thumb rubs over the thin fabric of her bodysuit. "What's wrong?"

She forces herself to open her eyes. He's hovering over her and she's never really noticed how much mass he actually has. He's lanky, sure, but he's also tall, broad shouldered, with long sinewy arms and beautiful hands.

"I'm just having a bad day," she says, staring resolutely at his chest so she doesn't have to see those eyes.

"I'm sorry," he says softly, like it matters, like he cares.

"Did Jackson come for practice?" It's bothering her that she hasn't heard from him, that the last time she saw her boyfriend he was pummeling Isaac and Scott into the ground, like a rabid animal.

"Uh, no." Stiles shakes his head. "Sorry."

Lydia presses her lips together. It's one thing for Jackson to cut school but he never misses practice. Something has to be wrong.

"Lydia." Stiles' voice is low and tender. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"I don't know," she whispers tremulously. The hand on her arm tugs but it's gentle, and Lydia lets the momentum pull her away from the wall of lockers so she's up against his chest.

Stiles' arms come around her and Lydia goes stiff but she doesn't pull away. "What - what are you doing?" she asks nervously.

His arms are leanly muscled through his sweatshirt and he's warm, so warm. "I'm holding you," he says. "You know, embracing. Hugging. Is this like, a unfamiliar concept to you?"

"No," she says, her voice only a little sullen.

One of Stiles' hands' spreads across her back between her shoulder blades and something in her body unwinds. Lydia lets herself relax into him, lets herself believe that she won't regret it later.

"Do you want me to stop?" he offers uncertainly.

"No," she whispers, like it's a secret, like she'd die of shame if anyone knew that she likes it, the way she feels right now. "Please don't stop."

Like she didn't even know what safe felt like before now. His hands on her back, her head on his shoulder, their hearts beating in time with each other.

"Okay," Stiles whispers back. "Okay. I'm hugging you and you're not stopping me. Awesome. That is like, definite relationship progress right there."

"Shut up, you're ruining it," she mumbles.

Stiles huffs out a laugh but he stops talking, and for a while they just stand there, her cheek presses against his chest, breathing in sync. Lydia closes her eyes and just lets herself feel, the tightness in her chest slowly dissolving. One of Stiles' hands floats up to the crown of her head and she can't help the little sound of pleasure that slips past her lips when his fingers start to stroke.

"Is there anything I can do?" he asks quietly.

Lydia blinks, too relaxed to get it right away. "Hmm?"

"To make your day better."

"Oh." She tilts her head back and looks up at him. Stiles gives her a little smile and she can't help but return it. "Drive me home?"

Stiles runs his fingers down the length of her hair. "Yeah. Of course, I can definitely do that."

She gets her sweater out of her locker and shrugs it back on, packs up her books while Stiles waits patiently next to her, twirling his car keys and shuffling side to side.

"Do you ever stop moving?" she inquiries, checking the state of her lipstick before shutting her locker.

Stiles grins. "Not really?"

They walk out to the parking lot together, Stiles giving her the rundown of every single little thing Lydia missed at lunch all the way through ninth period. It's easy, walking with him, half-listening to him chatter. Not because he talks mindlessly, she's realizing. He's just always thinking, ideas tumbling out of his mouth before he can stop himself.

They're almost at the Jeep when Stiles' phone goes off; he pulls it out his sweatshirt pocket and glares at the screen, like he's personally offended to be interrupted halfway through his story about the latest prank the team is planning against Finstock.

Lydia leans up against the trunk of his Jeep. "Are you going to answer that?"

"It's Scott," Stiles explains.

"It's fine, I don't mind." Lydia tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and sets her bag down at her feet.

He swipes to answer and puts the phone to his ear. "Hey Scott, I...but...why do I have to?" Stiles spins away from Lydia but not before she sees the expression on his face, like something has seriously pissed him off.

"I can't right now...how that my problem?" Stiles starts gesticulating wildly with his free hand. "I do too! I have a life outside of this stuff you know!"

Stiles opens his trunk with more force than necessary and throws his lacrosse gear into the car. "As a matter a fact I'm with Lydia right now...I am too!" Stiles pulls his phone away from his ear and holds it out to her. "Say hi to Scott, Lydia."

"Hi Scott!" she says loudly, smirking.

"See!" Stiles shouts at his phone, and mouths thank you at her. "No, absolutely not! You know why...I don't know...ugh fine...okay okay, yeah, I get it. I'll see what I can do."

Stiles is silent as Scott says something else and then Stiles says, "Yeah, yeah, I'm the best, you know it, I know it, everyone knows it. You're welcome, you idiot. Tell Allison she can send me a gift basket," and hangs up, scrubs his face and pockets his phone.

Lydia frowns and picks up her bag. "Is everything okay?"

Stiles sighs. "Yeah, we just...he wanted me to do something for him that I really, really don't want to do."

"Are you?"

Something in his mouth twists. "We compromised."

"I hear that's the secret to every happy marriage," Lydia teases, and walks around the Jeep to get in the passenger seat when Stiles unlocks the door for her.

Stiles gets in the driver's seat and turns over the engine, the fingers of his free hand

tapping against the steering wheel. Before he can even shift the car into drive his phone beeps.

"Jesus!" he yelps, digging his phone back out and reading a text. His tongue pokes out of the corner of his mouth as he quickly taps out a response, all the while beating out a staccato against the wheel.

"Since when are you so in demand?" Lydia asks, regretting it when her tone comes out slightly annoyed, like she's jealous.

"It's just Scott," Stiles says offhandedly, and drops his phone into an empty cup holder.

"Codependent much?"

Stiles shrugs. "He's my bro. And let's face it, the poor guy would be totally lost without me."

"I don't think anyone's disputing that."

"So..." Stiles says, forehead furrowed like he's thinking something through. "If you really need to be home right now I'll take you there but...any chance you're hungry?"

Lydia takes a moment to evaluate- she hasn't eaten since breakfast and now that she thinks about it she's actually very hungry. "Are you offering to buy me dinner?"

Stiles eyebrows shoot up towards his hairline. "Yeah, I guess - yeah. We can study for the precalc test?" he offers, like she might need some incentive or tangible reason to eat with him.

Lydia kicks off her heels so she can stretch out her legs on the dashboard. "I don't eat fast food," she warns him.

Stiles doesn't stop her, doesn't even blink at it, the way she's leaning back in her seat with her feet kicked up like it's her car and Stiles is just the chauffeur. Jackson would freak if her bare heels touched the interior of his Porsche.

It makes her feel a little reckless, the idea of pushing more boundaries, just to see what Stiles would do.

"How about the diner on Maple?" he suggests, pulling out of the parking spot.

Lydia shrugs noncommittally. She goes there sometimes to study with Allison. It's clean and the food isn't disgusting. "That's acceptable."

He snorts. "Was that a yes?"

She rolls her eyes. "Yes, Stiles, please take me to that random diner that's been around for so long nobody actually knows its real name, I thought you'd never ask."

"The pleasure is all mine," he says enthusiastically. "They have kick-ass curly fries."

Lydia makes a face. "Do I look like the kind of girl who eats processed carbohydrates?"

"You don't like french fries?" Stiles sounds scandalize.

"I didn't say I didn't like them, I said I don't eat then."

"But-but they're so good!" he protests. "Seriously, what's better than curly fries?"

"Fitting into my jeans," she snarks. "Not all of us have the metabolism of a teenage boy."

"You'd still look beautiful," he says sweetly.

"Oh," she says stupidly, like some love struck moron. "Thank you. I think."

Stiles pulls his eyes away from the road long enough to throw her a shy smile. "That was definitely meant as a compliment."

Lydia leans up against the window and presses her cheek against the glass, watches Beacon Hills fly by as Stiles drives.

"Milkshakes," she says after awhile.

"What?"

"Milkshakes," she repeats quietly. "I like milkshakes."

Stiles quirks an eyebrow. "Oh yeah?"

"Yes, okay? I like ice cream, and _yes_ I am aware that the sugar content makes it about as unhealthy as a deep fried potato."

"Hey, no need to get defensive!" Stiles is all-out grinning now. "I completely respect your right to enjoy a milkshake. It would be my honor to buy you a milkshake."

"Alright then."

The diner is packed, lots of students at Beacon Hills High hang out there after school and Lydia and Stiles get stuck behind a group of cheerleaders waiting for an open table. Lydia glares openly at them, they're so irritating with their coiled ringlets and perky Minnie Mouse voices.

They remind her of the girl she saw Jackson with at Danny's party, with their glossy beribboned ponytails and long lean legs. Girls that make Lydia want to stare at her naked body in the mirror, wondering if she's really enough, tilting her head back and forth to figure out the angles of her face.

Stiles, unbelievably, doesn't even seem to notice them. He stands shoulder to shoulder with her, pointing out that there are _seven_ different milkshake flavors written on the blackboard in chalk behind the pastry counter.

"I like strawberry," she says casually, shifting her weight back and forth in her heels.

The chattering of the girls in front of them rises sharply in pitch, like a flock of twittering birds, and it only takes a glance up for Lydia to see why. There's an older guy trying to leave, pushing through the group of cheerleaders, so attractive it's almost unnatural. Half of the girls are flat out staring at the guy and he actually has to move one dumbstruck girl out of his way by gently lifting her by the waist.

And then the guy stops right in front of Lydia and she is confronted by a wall of muscle clothed in an army green henley and a leather jacket. She looks up and catches herself in pale eyes that give her a sharp evaluating look before sliding over to Stiles.

He crosses his arms over his chest. "Stiles."

Lydia glances at Stiles in surprise; he knows this guy?

"Hey Derek." Stiles has kind of a mad grin on his face, like he's nervous and trying not to show it. "How's it going?"

"Fine," Derek says tersely, and after a moment, like an afterthought, he says, "and you?"

"Oh, fine, just dandy, no complaints here," Stiles rambles amicably, but he gently shoulders his way in front of Lydia so his body is between her and Derek's, like he's trying to shield her from him.

"How's your engine?" Derek asks.

Stiles blinks. "Huh?"

"I talked to Scott, he mentioned you were having some problems with it. That you thinking about _upgrading?"_

"Oh!" Stiles eyes go wide. "Yeah, yeah. I'm hoping that it won't come to that but you think that would be possible? Like, worse case scenario only, I swear."

Derek tilts his head. "Have you considered your other option?"

"My other option?" Stiles looks confused.

"Yeah. Get rid of the car altogether."

For some reason Stiles glowers and reaches out his arm towards Derek only to drop it at the last second, like he wanted to poke him but thought better of it. "Dude, we are _not getting rid of the car_ , how many times do I have to explain to you that that's not a viable option?"

Derek shrugs. "Have it your way."

Stiles huffs. "So can you help with the engine or not?"

"It's not really a question of _can_ I, Stiles." There's a bit of a smirk on Derek's face.

"Fine, will you?"

"I'll think about it," Derek says neutrally.

Stiles looks relieved. "That's all I'm asking for, man."

"There's something else you should consider before you make a decision like that," Derek mentions.

Stiles squints and pushes his hand through his hair, making it stick up even more. "Yeah?"

Derek nods. "If you upgrade the engine, the car will have more power. But the engine is only one part of the car, and all of those parts are the sum of the whole. I can do the engine, if it's really necessary, but the rest of the car has to be compatible."

Stiles looks concerned. "Compatible?"

"Yes," Derek says tightly. "And that's something you won't know for sure until installation."

"And if it's not compatible?"

Derek looks grim. "Then the car won't run again. Ever."

Stiles looks horrified. Lydia is baffled, as much as Stiles is absurdly proud of his piece of crap Jeep he really didn't strike her as serious car guy.

"Seriously?" Stiles asks. "Are you sure?"

Derek jerks his head in confirmation and slides a pair of aviators over his face. "Think about it. It's a serious decision."

"Yeah," Stiles says. "Okay. I'll, uh, talk to Scott about it, see what he thinks."

Derek snorts. "You do that."

Stiles' upper lip curls in distaste. "I will."

"And I'd appreciate it if you didn't mention it to any third parties."

Stiles looks irritated. "Excuse me?"

"I had a _potential costumer_ looking around earlier. He wasn't happy when I told him I couldn't help him."

Stiles' eyes are huge. "I can imagine - oh look, there's a table open, bye Derek!" And he grabs Lydia's hand and pulls her away before the other guy can even say goodbye.

"Okay, who was that?" Lydia hisses, following him to a small booth towards the back of the diner.

"Derek Hale," Stiles grumbles, flopping into the booth and dropping his backpack down on the vinyl seat.

"Hale? How do I know that name?"

"Like the Hale fire Hales." He slouches back in his seat, suddenly looking exhausted.

"Oh," Lydia says softly, because she's heard stories about it, children died in that fire. "How do you know him?"

"Ah, he knows Scott." For some reason Stiles looks distinctly uncomfortable.

Lydia frowns; if Scott were friends with Derek Allison would've mentioned him by now. "Scott knows him?"

"Yeah, they're kind of like, distantly related," Stiles says, his mouth twisting up, an amused look on his face like he's making a private joke.

"And he's a mechanic?"

Stiles blinks. "Huh?"

"I'm assuming that was why you asked to replace your engine." Lydia narrows her eyes at him. "And by the way, if you're driving me around in a car with an engine that could blown up I will _destroy_ you."

Stiles looks alarmed at the accusation. "No, it - its fine, it's not like that, I'd never drive you in an unsafe car Lydia, Jesus."

"Then what the hell was that all about?"

Stiles shrugs. "Derek's into cars." Like that explains everything.

The waitress saves him from further awkwardness, swooping in and taking Stiles' order of a cheeseburger, fries and a coke, and a spinach pecan salad and strawberry milkshake for Lydia.

Stiles pulls out his calc book and for awhile they study together, although Stiles is actually pretty good, because when Lydia scans his problem set all his calculations are correct. Their food comes and Stiles makes a big show of eating his fries, moaning around each bite like he's having a sexual experience.

"C'mon," he taunts, holding a fry out to her. "You know you want one."

"I already told you" -

"No processed carbs, yeah, I heard you. C'mon Lydia, live a little. I won't tell anyone."

She looks at it, his hand outstretched, hating herself when her stomach cramps hungrily. "I don't want it."

"Wait, no, I have a great idea, hold on," he says, and dips the french fry into her milkshake.

Lydia's mouth twists in disgust. "What are you doing?"

"You mean you've never dipped a fry in a milkshake before?" Stiles look mildly outraged.

Lydia sneers. "Of course not."

"But it's so _good_."

She cocks a doubtful eyebrow. "It doesn't look good."

Stiles is grinning. "Sometimes things you wouldn't think would be a good combination that end up being a perfect combination."

"I don't know..."

"Just try it," he coaxes. "If you hate it I will never make you eat a processed carbohydrate again, promise."

Lydia takes the milkshake-soaked fry from him and tentatively folds it into her mouth. It's a sensation of opposites - hot and cold, sweet and spicy, creamy and crunchy.

Stiles was right. It's amazing.

"Do you hate it?" Stiles asks anxiously. "You can spit it out if you hate it."

Lydia swallows and takes a sip of water. "I didn't hate it. And I'm a lady, ladies don't spit."

He grins. "Oh yeah?"

"Of course not," she says sweetly, and runs her tongue across her bottom lip salaciously, just for her own amusement. "Ladies swallow."

Stiles chokes and spit-takes all over his calc homework.

/

Jackson is back at school the next morning, swaggering through the hallways. He finds Lydia on the way to chemistry and slings one arm around her shoulder but it doesn't feel nice, it feels heavy and oppressive.

"What are you doing?" She scowls at him and tries to duck under his arm but Jackson's fingers tighten around her shoulder.

"What, aren't you happy to see me?" His tone is warm and teasing but it's not cute anymore, Lydia can't remember why she used to find him so charming.

"No," she says icily. "I'm not."

"Oh c'mon, you're really mad about the other day, are you?"

"You hit two of your teammates! You probably gave Isaac a concussion."

Jackson snorts. "Lahey already probably had a concussion, and not because of me."

Something is squirming inside her, something oily and insidious, like revulsion. She stops still, turns to give Jackson her haughtiest look. "I want to be with a winner, not a bully."

"You've never cared before," Jackson points out.

Lydia realizes with a horrible sinking feeling that he's right. She's never even noticed it, never used to care how Jackson treated other people because it didn't matter, because there was only her, and Jackson, and getting to the top was more important than the way she got there.

"Well I'm noticing now," she says flippantly. "And I want it to stop."

Jackson smirks. "Yeah, you've made that very clear."

She narrows her eyes at him. "What does that mean?"

Jackson leans in, lips an inch from her face. "It means I'm your boyfriend, not your bitch."

"Whatever," she snipes, and stalks away towards chemistry but Jackson grabs her arm.

"C'mon, just relax, why are you always so pissy lately?"

"I don't know, why are you always being an asshole?"

Jackson's eyes darken. "First I'm a bully, now I'm an asshole? God, take a Midol Lydia." He scratches at collar of his shirt and a sliver of white appears from under the edge of the fabric, like a bandage.

"What happened to your neck?" She reaches up but Jackson is quicker, catching her hand and holding it tightly.

"Nothing, it's fine. Practice got a little rough."

Lydia tense. "Practice."

"Yeah. Lacrosse practice?" Jackson is staring at her.

"You went to practice yesterday?"

"Yeah, Lydia, we have a game on Friday."

Except he didn't, Stiles said so.

Lydia tugs on the hem of her cream and burgundy rose printed dress. "So what happened?"

Jackson subtly scratches at the bandage. "What?"

"To your neck."

Jackson looks away. "It's just a scratch."

He's lying to her, Lydia's sure of it now. Jackson's always worn his battle wounds proudly, he'd never put a bandage on a scratch, if anything he'd be bragging about, showing off, he's always looking for opportunity to broadcast how tough he is.

"Lydia, are you coming or not?"

"What?" She feels like she might throw up, maybe she should go back to the nurse and reserve a cot for the rest of the week.

"Chemistry."

"I don't feel well." She steps back away from him. "I'm going to the nurse."

"Seriously?" Jackson frowns, a look of concern on his perfectly symmetrical face. "You never skip chemistry."

"Take notes for me?" She offers him her widest fake smile, clutching the strap of her bag.

"Yeah," Jackson says, looking a little suspicious, but not enough to ask further questions. "See you at lunch?"

"Alright." Lydia stays frozen, watching his retreating back as he walks away from her.

The bell rings and Lydia stops in the empty hallway, lightheaded, places one hand on the wall and slides to the floor. The light is coming in through the windows.

It's so simple, once you know how to do it. She just makes herself forget. Locks Jackson up in a box along with Isaac Lahey's bruised and bloody mouth, Allison's tears, Scott's concern, Stiles' gentle hands.

She doesn't know what she's doing in the hallway. She doesn't know what she's doing.

She sits, staring at the light, like she could open her skin and let it inside of her, like a blessing. Reborn clean. A better Lydia, a doll that isn't hollow inside. Like there isn't something deep and aching in of her, begging to be filled.

Look at the light.

She makes herself forget about the pain, Jackson's lies, everyone's lies, the absolute certainty that all her friends are deceiving her. That she's nothing but something to be manipulated, a tool, pretty and useless.

She makes herself forget Stiles' eyes glinting in the sunlight like warm melting honey or whiskey in a crystal highball, watching her like she's a fiery goddess deigning to spend time among mortals. Like he would sacrifice anything for her, _to_ her, carve out his heart in her name and serve it on a silver platter.

She makes herself forget the way he makes her feel inside. Like she's melting along with him, like she can deceive herself into believing that she really deserves something like that, devotion, worship, like she'd fall on her knees for him but not like with Jackson, no, she cannot imagine Stiles ever wanting her that way.

Look at the light.

Lydia sits on floor of the hallway for the entirety of the class period and watches the light streams through the windows, cutting shapes across the floor, particles dancing through it; wishing it could take her apart like Jackson's hands. That she could be something like that. Weightless, free.

Illuminated.


	5. Chapter 5

Beacon Hills wins their lacrosse game on Friday night. Greenberg throws the after-party, Allison and Lydia follow Stiles' Jeep from the school parking lot to the house in Allison's car. Allison parks right behind Stiles and Lydia watches the boys pour out of the car, Scott, Stiles, and Isaac, showered and changed into street clothes.

Lydia steps out of Allison's car and yanks self-consciously on the hem of her midnight blue miniskirt. She's wearing a cropped heather grey crewneck sweatshirt with long sleeves but no tights and her legs are freezing. She bounces a few times in her ankle boots, shivering, watching Allison lock the car and walk around to the sidewalk, zipped tightly into her leather jacket, her long legs in skintight dark rinse skinny jeans tucked into her boots.

"Excited?" Allison smiles, the dimples in her cheeks popping, and reaches out to clasp Lydia's hand.

Lydia forgets that's she's mad at Allison. It's impossible to be right now, when Allison's smiling like that, holding her hand like a promise. Up by the Jeep the boys are all standing in a knot, waiting for them. Scott's in the middle, Stiles chattering loudly about something, waving his arms around and laughing, and Isaac huddles closely next to Scott, sweatshirt hood pulled over his hair.

Scott's face lights up when he sees Allison. Lydia can feel it, the way her best friend's body pulls away and Lydia doesn't even think about it; she tugs on Allison's hand to pull her back. Allison stumbles, tripping in her knee-high brown leather riding boots. Their hands get pulled apart from the force and Lydia can only watch as Allison slips away from her.

Scott dives in and catches Allison at the waist before she can fall, _one handed_ , like it's the easiest thing in the world.

"Thanks," Allison says breathlessly, staring up at Scott with stars in her eyes.

Lydia slides her right hand down to her exposed hip and pinches, because she made Allison trip and she deserves it this time, for being envious and bitter, deserves to hurt.

Scott pulls Allison up and runs his hands up and down her arms. "You okay?"

"Fine. You caught me." Allison gives Scott a dopey smile but when she turns back to look at Lydia her lips are pressed into a hard line, and Lydia flushes with shame and turns away.

"Okay!" Stiles claps his hands loudly together and they all ignore the way Isaac twitches at the sound. "Everyone ready to party?"

He holds his arm out to her and Lydia knows an out when she sees one, she slips her arm in his so their elbows are linked. A car door slams, across the street she can see Danny climbing out of Jackson's Porsche, parked in front of the neighbors' sycamore tree.

"Lets go," she says hastily, and turns on her heel so she and Stiles lead the way up the stairs into the house. "I need a drink."

By the time Lydia makes it to the kitchen where the drinks are she's lost all her friends: Allison isn't drinking because she's driving tonight, Scott never drinks because it would _just be a waste_ , whatever _that_ means, and Stiles and Isaac go wherever Scott goes, like teenage bodyguards with lacrosse sticks.

Lydia does a few shots of vodka with some of the other players' girlfriends, idly compares lipstick shades while silently wondering how she used to think these people were her friends, wonders at how vapid she used to be.

Across the room Jackson is talking with Danny and Greenberg, drinking something out of a red solo cup.

A drink gets pushed into Lydia's hand and she doesn't even check what's in it, just tosses some of it back and coughs at the burn. She stays in the kitchen until the alcohol really comes on, her whole body pulsing with warm heat. She can feel her feet on the floor again, like she's just remembering herself; that she's young and beautiful and sexy and she can have anything she wants.

Just choose.

She slinks out of the kitchen, hips swaying, and when she glances back over her shoulder Jackson is staring at her, mouth open. Lydia smirks and flips her hair, chugs the last vestiges of her drink and tosses her cup in the trash on her way out.

It doesn't take her long to spot Scott and Allison. They're making out sloppily against the far wall in full view of everyone. Isaac is sitting on a couch looking uncomfortable while Erica Reyes twirls her fingers through his curls, giggling, the tops of her breasts spilling over the cups of her black lace crop top, and Stiles -

Stiles is sitting on Isaac's other side, and next to Stiles, sitting on the arm of the couch with her feet in his lap, is a girl.

She's blond, with a sweet round face, and she's wearing a tacky pink dress that shows off her slim body. She's pretty. Not classically beautiful like Allison or striking like Lydia, but good looking in her own right. She looks like a teenage boy's wet dream, a California girl next door with glimmering light hair and tanned toned legs.

Lydia stands there, staring, watching as the girl leans down and whispers something in his ear that makes Stiles burst into peals of laughter.

The hand on her neck startles her, Lydia jumps and Jackson is right there, with his perfect blue eyes and perfect cheekbones, leaning into her space.

"You look good," he murmurs, and strokes his fingers against her skin. "Sexy."

She forces herself to roll her eyes at the compliment. She's a rock, she's Lydia Martin and she doesn't spread her legs for generic praise like _good_ , or _sexy_. "I'm wearing a sweatshirt."

"Yeah, but I can do this." Jackson's hand slides across her bare midriff. Heat pools low in her belly because her body is a traitor; she melts at the slightest kind gesture like a weak little thing desperate for affection.

Jackson steps a little closer, Lydia leans back against the wall and he steps between her open legs, the hand on her stomach drifting down to her hip. "I miss you," he whispers. "I haven't seen you all week."

"I came to your game," she placates, sucking in a breath when his fingers dig into the spot on her hip that she pinched earlier.

"You know what I mean. Just the two of us." He slides his thigh between her legs and she's definitely a little drunk, her reflexes fail her and she can't help but sigh and open up at the contact instead of pushing him away.

Over Jackson's shoulder she can see Stiles' hand on the girl's knee. Lydia feels a rush of nausea, her body flooding with ice because she's jealous of some trashy girl with terrible highlights. Allison and Scott are still kissing. Isaac is now trapped between Erica and her boyfriend, some hulking dark skinned boy who seems content to watch Erica flirt with everyone in sight.

No one is coming to save her.

Lydia looks up at Jackson. Weighs his actions, the blood his fists have spilled, with the way he's looking at her, eyes burning like a flame, making her shiver. She remembers what she did to Allison, the way she pulled on her best friend's arm without even considering that she might be hurting her, how if Scott hadn't been there Allison would've fallen.

Maybe there's something inside Lydia that's like Jackson, something cold and selfish.

Maybe Lydia deserves to be punished.

Her arms float up, weightless, and loop around his neck. She blinks slowly, peers up at him through mascara-coated lashes, and deliberately pouts her lips. "We're alone now."

They end up locked in a small guest bedroom upstairs. Jackson bends Lydia over a low dresser that's pushed against a full-length mirror. She watches Jackson's reflection reach down and hike her skirt up above her hips, her burgundy lace thong a deep slash of color between her white thighs, like she's been cut open.

He unzips his jeans and presses up against her, leaning forward to lay himself against the length of her back, his hands curling over her wrists to give himself leverage as he begins to roll his hips against her.

Jackson groans.

Lydia stares at her face in the mirror. She blew out her hair before the game with a sleek center part, but now it's all ruffled, a few strands falling across her face. Her eyeliner is smudged and her cheeks are flushed from the alcohol. Jackson has his face buried in the side of her neck. She can only see the curve of his jaw, his broad shoulders.

He doesn't say anything, just breathes heavily with his lips against her ear, that athletic body moving in a steady tempo. Lydia can see the veins in his forearms, every carefully sculpted muscle. His fingers are gripping her wrists so hard she knows she's going to have bruises in the morning.

Before she can stop herself she's thinking about Stiles' hands. Those long elegant fingers, how he always touches her so carefully, like she matters, like she's breakable.

 _Stiles' hand on the girl's knee._ Lydia's never seen him touch another girl before. She can't believe how crazy it makes her feel, the idea of Stiles touching that girl, his broad palm cupping over perfect legs.

Jackson scrapes his teeth over her neck and it shocks her back into her body, her breath sucking in as her stomach tightens. He mistakes her sudden inhale as arousal and the hand on her right wrist releases only to slide down around the curve of her hip and under the waistband of her skirt.

Lydia swallows back something sour. She sucks in another breath and shuts her eyes so she doesn't have to look at the girl in the mirror - a girl with tear-filled eyes brimming with pain, a sharp collarbone poking out of the collar of her sweatshirt, hands clutching the edge of the dresser in a white-knuckled grip.

 _You're here_ , she tells herself silently. _You're at a party and the boy you love is touching you. And it doesn't make your skin crawl and it doesn't make you want to cry because you know who you are and what you deserve, and you love him._

She loves him but it feels like a lie, a sin, something weak and bad that will break her down, corrupt her into - what?

What is she so afraid of, anyway?

A flash of light flares behind her eyelids like Isaac's eyes in the dark, Isaac with his bleeding mouth like a crushed flower and his poor dented skull, Isaac looking at her like he knew, _knew_ that she would end up right here.

 _Does he tell you he's sorry? Does he tell you he loves you?_

Jackson's hand snakes into her underwear and Lydia jumps, her legs crossing together at the intrusion of his fingers. She realizes her right hand is still free and she curls her fingers around his forearm and pulls his hand away from her body.

"What's wrong?" he pants in her ear. "You used to like it when I touched you."

"Well I don't anymore," she snaps, and uses her grip on his arm as leverage to whirl herself around and roll her skirt back down.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Jackson doesn't even sound mad, just drunk and confused, a wet patch seeping through his grey boxer briefs.

"I don't" - Lydia blinks, suddenly lightheaded. "I don't feel well."

"Again?" Jackson reaches out clumsily and presses the back of his hand against her cheek. "Are you sick?"

"Stop," she whines drunkenly, and pushes his hand away. "Just stop touching me."

Jackson zips up his jeans, looking dazed in the face of her rejection, like he doesn't even know how to process it. "It's like you don't even want me anymore."

"I can't do this, okay?" The words tumble out of her mouth, inhibitions lowered from the alcohol, half aroused and half disgusted with herself. "I can't be here."

"Then why are you?"

"I don't know," she realizes, her breath catching in her chest. "I don't know anymore."

"Lydia" -

"Don't." She pushes him away and stalks out of the bedroom, wiping the edge of her hand against her eyes because she is not going to cry, not at a party, not like this.

Allison is standing at the bottom of the stairs, jacket off to reveal a lavender top she borrowed from Lydia back in August after she came home from France, her expression softening into relief when she sees her.

"There you are," Allison says, smiling, reaching out to her when Lydia wobbles on the last step. "I was wondering where you disappeared to."

Lydia blinks at her. She knows what she looks like right now, knows that blood is pooling in her wrists where Jackson grabbed her, knows that her cheeks are flaming pink and that she's shaking.

 _Look at me_ , she wants to scream. _How can you not see me?_

"Lydia?" Allison prompts. "Are you alright?"

"I want to leave." She's upset but the words come out flat. Lydia can feel herself shutting down, the lid of the box descending over her.

Allison's brow furrows. "Are you sure? It's not even eleven."

"Yes, I'm sure. Can we go, please?"

"Sure, just let me find Scott."

"Allison!" Lydia's throat aches and for one horrible second she's afraid she's going to burst into tears. "You can text Scott later, let's just go, okay?"

Allison's eyes narrow suspiciously at her, like she knows Lydia is lying. "What happened?"

"Nothing!" She's too worked up to sound innocent now, even as she tries.

Allison squares her shoulders. "I don't believe you," she says firmly, a challenge.

"Look, I'm bored and this party sucks and I just want to leave, alright?"

"Okay," Allison says slowly. "I'm going to say goodbye to Scott, and then we can leave."

"Fine, I'll wait outside then." Lydia shifts her feet to escape but Allison grabs her arm, right where Jackson held her by the wrist and Lydia cries out, stumbling back against the bottom step and pulling away from Allison.

Allison's face goes pale. "What's wrong? What did I do, what's wrong?"

"Nothing," Lydia hisses. "God, for _once_ could you just be on my side and help me instead of hammering me with questions and running to Scott?"

Allison's cheeks flush, her eyes darting around the room like she's worried other people are listening. "Are you _drunk_?"

"We're at a _lacrosse_ party, of course I'm drunk!"

Allison's eyes flick upstairs. "Where were you, anyway?"

Lydia scowls. "None of your business."

"Lydia, are you hurt? Did something happen?"

 _Yes_ , Lydia thinks, but not in a way that Allison would understand. No one would understand, except Isaac maybe, a little. "I don't want to be here anymore, how difficult a concept is that for you to understand?"

Allison pinches the bridge of her nose. "Okay, just stay here, let me get Scott" -

"I don't want Scott! Why do you always leave me for him? Would it kill you to be on my side for once?"

Allison grabs her arm again and this time she ignores Lydia's whimpered protest. "Okay, you need to tell me what the hell happened, right now."

"Nothing happened!"

Allison looks infuriated. "You can keep saying that but I still don't believe you."

"Are you implying that I'm lying?" Lydia says acidly.

"I know you aren't telling me the truth," Allison retorts.

"Well you're not exactly in a position to talk about that, are you?" Lydia's just drunk enough to feel superior, even if no one else is aware of her brilliance she is, and if Allison wants a fight Lydia's just worked up enough to crush her.

To her surprise though Allison backs away, her eyes going very wide. "What are you talking about?"

Lydia sneers. "Really? You're just going to pretend that you don't know what I'm talking about."

"Talking about what?" Scott appears from out of nowhere, with Stiles right behind him, pushing through the crowd.

"Nothing," Allison says quickly. "Lydia wants to leave."

Scott frowns, looking between her and Allison. "What's wrong?"

It feels like everyone at the party is looking at her. Lydia wants to disappear, wishes she had waited and asked Stiles for a ride instead, because he wouldn't ask her questions, he would give her anything she asked for.

 _Stiles, laughing, his hand on the blond's knee._

When Lydia tilts her head up she can see Jackson upstairs, standing in the hallway, watching all of them, knives reflecting in his eyes. Lydia staggers back, stomach threatening to crawl up her throat.

"Allison." Lydia's voice breaks and she has to cover her face with her hands to hide her distress. "Please."

"Lets go outside," Scott suggests, sliding his arm around Allison's shoulders.

"But" -

"Allison." Scott's voice is gentle but it's firm too, and whatever Allison was going to say dies on her tongue.

It's like Lydia's trapped, she watches Scott and Allison move through the room like time has been suspended, Jackson watching her from the top of the stairs like he's frozen in place. Hands curl lightly over the tops of her shoulders and Lydia inhales sharply, her whole body shuddering reflexively at the unexpected contact.

"Lydia." It's Stiles. His voice is very soft when he says her name, like he's speaking to a wounded animal. "C'mon, we're going outside to talk."

Stiles. Stiles is touching her but it's okay, she forces the fear back down her throat.

Stiles is safe.

She tries to say something, or nod, something to acknowledge that she knows he's here but Jackson is watching, and she's out of moves.

He beat her. She walked away first but she still feels like she's lost.

Lydia hates losing.

"Hey." Stiles turns her around by guiding her with his hands and he looks terribly concerned, his beautiful eyes full of worry. "Lydia, you're shaking."

"Can we leave now?" Her voice sounds reedy, like she might break at any moment.

"Yeah." One of his hands slide down to her back, gentle pressure urging her forward towards the door. "Yeah, lets go."

Stiles leads her out of the house and down the front steps, muttering _careful, careful_ , like she's never walked in heels while under the influence before. Allison and Scott are standing closely together on the sidewalk waiting for them, his arms around her, talking into her ear while she nods. Allison looks like she's close to tears and her spine is held very straight, like she's this brittle thing about to break in Scott's hands.

 _You did this_ , Lydia thinks to herself, remembering what Scott said to her the other day. _This is killing Allison._

She's standing on the sidewalk with the three people who care about her wellbeing the most, besides her mother, and she doesn't deserve this, she doesn't know what to do with this. Lydia is a conqueror, an ice queen. Lonely and slowly bleeding out on a throne of lies. She doesn't know what to do, how to strip herself bare and show them, all the parts of her that are raw and begging to be healed.

"Okay." Allison's voice is thick, like she's going to cry. "We're outside. Can you tell me what happened now?"

Suddenly Lydia is just so tired; she wants to lie down on the cement and go to sleep right here, outside Greenberg's house. She's read about this, people who get stuck outside in the cold for too long, explorers who stop walking because they're just so cold, their survival instincts stop working.

They lay down in the snow and go to sleep and they don't wake up.

Lydia could do that. It might even feel good. To just surrender. She sways sideways and Stiles slides his arm down to her waist to hold her upright at his side.

"Easy," he murmurs. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine." It's so painfully obvious that she's lying, her lips are stretched into a plastic smile and a stray tear betrays her and escapes from the corner of her eye. "Allison," she says a little louder. "I said I'm fine."

"Lydia," Allison says sharply. "Just tell us what happened."

"I told you, nothing happened, so you can stop freaking out over _nothing_!"

Instead of looking at her Allison's eyes slide to Scott, eyebrows raised like she's asking him a question telepathically, and Scott quickly shakes his head, once. Allison presses the heels of her hands to her eyes and lets out a muffled exasperated sound, like she wants to yell but won't let herself.

"Lydia," Stiles says again, and when she looks up at him he raises his thumb to her cheek and wipes off the tear.

She freezes. She wishes she could disappear inside of him, hide behind his sternum until Allison isn't angry anymore. It feels unspeakably intimate, her jaw cradled in his big hand like this.

"Stiles," she whispers, because she doesn't know how to say, _help me._

"It's okay," he reassures in a whisper, so Scott and Allison can't hear, and runs his thumb along her cheekbone. "No one's mad. She's just worried about you."

It's enough to make her curl against him even though _his hand on her knee_ and _her feet in his lap_ and _Stiles laughing_. Stiles adjusts his arm, slides it across the back of her shoulders and Lydia reaches up and grips the fabric of his navy and green plaid flannel.

"Lydia, come on," Allison pleads. "Just talk to us. I'm not stupid, I know something happened."

Her body feels weighted down, it's taking everything in her not to drop all her weight onto Stiles. Lydia blinks heavily at Allison. "Can I go sit in your car?"

Allison's mouth drops open. "Are you serious?"

"Please, Allison." She lowers her head down to Stiles' shoulder, only tall enough to do it because of the heels of her boots, and hears the little noise of surprise he makes at the contact. "I'm so tired."

"I can't believe you." Allison looks beyond exasperated. "You are really being _unbelievable_ tonight, you know that?"

"Allison," Stiles says sharply. "C'mon, cut her some slack."

"I'm her best friend, don't tell me she needs me to cut her a break!"

" _Allison_." Scott says her name like a warning.

"What, do you really expect me to give her enough rope to hang herself with?" Allison snaps. "Jesus Lydia, what am I supposed to do, wait until there's nothing left of you to step in?"

"Allison, this isn't helping." Scott sounds tense. "Maybe we should" -

"Are you seriously going to say what I think you're about to say?" Allison looks outraged. "After everything that happened last spring?"

"I think we have to reconsider" -

"Scott, we agreed! This was your idea, you made me promise"-

Stiles clears his throat loudly, right hand anchored on her shoulder, his left warm on Lydia's back, sliding his fingertips up and down the exposed spine of her lower back. "You guys, I really don't think this is a great time to" -

"Shut up Stiles!" Allison and Scott say at the same time.

"Unbelievable," Stiles mutters, looking up at the sky.

"Look, I'm just trying to keep everyone safe," Scott says defensively.

"And we could, if Lydia would just be honest with us!" Allison snaps.

"We've all lied, Allison," Scott counters. Lydia can't tell whose side he's on anymore, one minute he's backing up Allison and the next he's arguing with her.

"Yeah, to keep her safe, not so she could end up as Jackson's punching bag!"

"Stop," Lydia whispers, and turns her face into the crook of Stiles' neck to make Allison go away. "Please stop."

She's fourteen again, trapped between her screaming parents. _Lydia Lydia Lydia, your daughter, she's your daughter, your fault, no it's your fault, all your fault, Lydia honey just talk to us, talk to us, talk to us, why won't you talk to us?_

Lydia moans and cups her hands over her ears.

"Okay Allison, I get that you're upset but if you don't unlock your car I'm driving Lydia home myself," Stiles declares.

"Stiles," Scott starts. "We have to"-

"Not tonight," Stiles says firmly. "Come on, you guys. Look at her, she can't do this right now."

"This isn't over," Allison threatens, but she takes her keys out of her jacket pocket and unlocks the car. "Fine, go, I need to talk to Scott for a minute in private."

"Come on," Stiles whispers, and reaches up to pull Lydia's hands away from her ears. "Everything's okay."

Lydia rubs her eyes, too late to remember she's wearing eyeliner and it's probably smudged all over her face. She doesn't want to pull away. Stiles is warm and it's so easy, to let herself fall forward into him, her face pressing into the hollow of his throat.

"Oh," he says, sounding surprised that she doesn't want to pull away from him. "Okay, I can work with this, you just do whatever you've got to do. I've got you."

Stiles walks her backwards down the sidewalk like they're doing an awkward dance, Lydia's face pressed into his chest to spare herself the humiliation of Scott and Allison looking at her like this: teary eyed, makeup ruined, a girl about to dissolve into pieces.

Stiles opens the passenger side door for her and turns with his whole body to get her into the car, nearly smacking his head on the roof of the car as he lowers Lydia into the seat.

"Okay," Stiles mumbles, and leans over her, face practically in her chest, to buckle her seatbelt for her like she's a child, and actually slides two fingers between the belt and her chest to make sure it fits right. "Nice and tight?"

Lydia blinks but his face doesn't resolve into anymore more than plush lips and a constellation of moles. "What?"

Stiles chuckles. "You're totally wrecked, aren't you?"

"It's a lacrosse party, since when don't people drink at lacrosse parties?"

Stiles reaches out to brush a strand of hair off her forehead and Lydia pushes up into his hand. Through the windshield she can see Scott and Allison arguing quietly, their foreheads almost pressed together.

"Didn't anyone ever tell you to say no to peer pressure?" Stiles teases lightly. There's something comforting about the weight of his palm on her forehead, like he's keeping her grounded in her body.

"Maybe if I had friends like you..." Lydia lets her eyes flutter shut for a moment, relishes the way his fingers stroke the top of her head.

"I am your friend," Stiles says softly.

"I know," Lydia murmurs. "You keep saying that."

"You seem to keep needing a reminder."

When she turns her head he's crouched against the open door, practically in her seat, left hand braced against her headrest. She takes a moment, just to really look at him - the gold refracting in his amber eyes, the slope of his nose, the focused intensity of his expression, like she's the only one he sees, like the pretty blond girl at the party was just a hallucination.

"Hey," he says gently, his lips curving up into a grin. "You with me?"

On the sidewalk Allison yells something and stamps her foot. Scott throws his arms up in the air and Allison jabs her index finger vaguely in the direction of the car. Lydia flinches, like Allison could hit her from ten feet away by the force of her will.

"Lydia," Stiles coaxes. "Look at me."

Her eyes flick back to him. "I'm sorry," she rasps.

"Hey, Lydia, no." Stiles' expression melts back into concern. "This isn't your fault, okay?"

Lydia shuts her eyes because she is a queen with a heart of stone, and heartless girls don't cry for love. She kicks off her ankle boots so she can put her feet up on the seat and leans down to pillow her cheek on her knees.

She's not going to cry. She's not. "Promise?"

Stiles makes this sound, like she's hurting him, and she tenses when both of his hands come down to her wrists. She sits there with lead in her stomach, waiting for him to roll up her sleeves and prove her a liar.

He doesn't, just wraps his fingers around her wrists, very lightly, so she could break away if she needed to. "It's _never_ your fault," he says, and shakes his hands a little to emphasize his point. "Please tell me you know that."

"I feel like I don't know anything anymore," she says hollowly.

"Yeah," Stiles says heavily. "I know what you mean. But Lydia." His fingers stroke across the thin skin on the undersides of her wrists. "This? This isn't okay. Okay?"

Lydia sniffs. "Okay."

Stiles sighs and turns his head towards Scott and Allison. "Allison's coming back."

Lydia nods. "You should go."

Stiles releases her wrists but he hovers next to her until Allison comes back, and leans back into the car to give her a half-hug, one arm around her back, and drops his cheek to the top of her head for a second. "It's going to be okay," he whispers.

He squeezes her shoulders quickly, gives her a little reassuring pat and pulls away. "Goodnight Lydia," he says softly, and stands back on the sidewalk and shuts the car door.

Lydia can see him say something to Allison through the window. Allison says something back that Lydia can't hear, gives him a quick hug and walks around the front of the driver's side and gets into the car. Lydia's beyond words now, she's past trying to defend herself. She just closes her eyes and waits for Allison to rain down on her like a hurricane.

It's quiet in the car for almost a full minute, and when Allison finally speaks, all she says is, "My mom's out of town for the weekend. Business trip."

Lydia lifts her head off her knees in surprise. There's no vinegar in Allison's voice, she just sounds tired. "Your dad always makes pancakes when she's out of town."

"Yeah." Allison puts the keys in the ignition to turn the car on but her hands rest on the wheel, the car still in park.

"I love your dad's pancakes," Lydia says lightly.

"I know." Allison's eyes slide to her. "Your bag's in the trunk right?"

"Yeah."

Allison nods. "You should sleep over. You know he always makes more food than the two of us can eat."

It's an offering, an olive branch, and Lydia reaches out with both hands to take it. "Well, I wouldn't want any pancakes to go to waste."

Allison drives them to the Argent's big looming house and parks in the garage. Lydia follows quickly behind Allison, heels clacking on the cement floor. The Argent's garage creeps her out; it's full of Allison's archery equipment and racks of shotguns on the walls. She knows it's just for Allison's parents' work but it still makes her a little sick, thinking of all those bullets, how there are enough weapons in the house to arm a small country's military.

They tiptoe up the stairs to Allison's room in the dark. Allison flicks her lamp on, holds her hand out to take Lydia's bag and dumps it on the armchair next to her bed. They brush their teeth and take their makeup off in Allison's bathroom side by side. Lydia watches Allison in the mirror, her easy grace as she moves around the small space.

"I'll be right back," Allison says, spitting into the sink. "You can borrow a shirt to sleep in."

Lydia opens the second drawer from the top of Allison's dresser, where she knows Allison keeps her tee shirts. She finds a threadbare grey long sleeve with _Peoria High School Track and Field_ emblazoned down one arm. Lydia peels off her sweatshirt and bra, rolls her miniskirt down her legs and carefully folds her clothes, placing them on a stack on the armchair next to her bag, and pulls Allison's shirt over her head.

Allison comes back with a glass of water and a bottle of ibuprofen. "Take two," she instructs and Lydia's too tired to argue, she shakes the pills out into her palm and tosses them back.

"I didn't know you lived in Illinois," Lydia comments, placing the glass of water on the nightstand.

Allison squints at the shirt for a second and laughs. "Oh my god I totally forgot about that. Yeah, we lived there for a few months my freshman year. I hated it."

"Why?"

Allison peels off her jeans and top and changes into one of Scott's practice jerseys. "Winter in the Midwest is brutal. And everyone had to play a sport, it was mandatory and of course they didn't take archery, even though I was nationally ranked."

She waits for Lydia to crawl into bed before flicking the lamp off and getting in next to her, sliding down under the blanket. Lydia blinks at the darkness, comforted by the familiar smell of Allison's white and green patterned sheets, the feel of Allison's calf brushing against her shin.

Allison curls over on her side, facing her. Moonlight is slicing through the window, throwing shadows over her pale face. She looks like a Picasso, disjointed, one big eye here, a slash of her mouth there.

"I love you," Allison whispers, and she's her again, the girl Lydia hand selected to be her best friend when Lydia saw her standing in the hallway on her first day at Beacon Hills High last year, looking mildly terrified and out of place.

"I know," Lydia whispers back.

"If I've lied to you, it's only because I'm trying to protect you," Allison says quietly, her voice a little hoarse. "Can you understand that?"

Lydia thinks about every time Jackson's hands made a mark on her skin and she never told Allison, because she knew it would hurt her and Lydia could never bring herself to do it, shatter Allison's innocence like that. Allison Argent, the princess with a killer right hook and deadly aim (Lydia's seen tapes of her old archery competitions and Allison was terrifying, in an awesome badass chick kind of way).

Allison, who believes in true love and soulmates, who's only known the tenderness of Scott McCall's hands on her body.

"Yeah," Lydia says softly, and turns her face into the pillow. "I understand."

/

When they come downstairs in the morning Allison's father is in the kitchen, a pot of coffee already made, and he's standing at the stove flipping perfectly browned pancakes onto a serving plate.

"Well if it isn't my two most favorite girls in Beacon Hills," he says cheerfully, and takes a sip of his coffee with his left hand while sliding a stack of pancakes off the pan and onto the plate with his right.

" _Dad_ ," Allison groans, like his affection is embarrassing her, but Lydia smiles and follows Allison across the room to get a mug for her coffee.

Lydia secretly adores Mr. Argent, even if he is kind of strict. He's always made Lydia know she's welcome, seems thrilled that Allison has made such a good friend. He took them out to dinner at an expensive French restaurant after she and Allison aced their finals last spring to celebrate, and when the maitre'd commented on his two beautiful daughters Mr. Argent smiled broadly and said _thank you_ instead of correcting him.

He makes Lydia wonder what it would be like to have a real father, someone who knows all her friends' names and cooks for them on the weekends, someone who would stay.

Lydia pours herself a cup of coffee and helps herself to the almond milk in the fridge. She spends almost as much time here as she does her own house, has no problem taking what she needs while Allison attempts to pour her coffee one-handed while reading something on her phone.

Lydia helps Mr. Argent set the table, ignoring Allison's snide little eye roll at her willingness to help, like she thinks Lydia is purposefully kissing her dad's ass. But it's just nice, to have someone who actually cares that she eats a meal. It's such a little thing, to be helpful. It's something Lydia secretly delights in, the calm domesticity of a set table, maple syrup and butter laid out neatly in the center

"Allison, no phones at the table please," Mr. Argent admonishes gently, when Allison plops down in a chair next to Lydia and helps herself to a stack of pancakes while her thumbs fly over her phone.

"Sorry Dad," Allison says meekly, and drops her phone into her lap, where Lydia can see her text under the table.

"So," he says cheerfully, dragging a pat of butter across his pancakes. "What's on the agenda for today?"

Lydia carefully spreads the thinnest layer of butter over her singular pancake and follows with the lightest drizzle of syrup, watching Allison purse her lips around the rim of her mug.

"We're going to The Bookstall," Allison says. It's the only independent bookstore in Beacon Hills, at least half of Lydia's books are purchased there, but she knows for a fact Allison has never set a foot inside, she's lazy and orders everything from Amazon.

"We are?" Lydia asks, and is punished for her question when Allison kicks her under the table.

"Yeah, I need that book for my history paper and they're the only bookstore in town who carries it, _remember_?"

"Right," Lydia lies, clutching her mug. "What's your topic again?"

"The Russo-Japanese war and its influence on the revolution," Allison spits out, grinning proudly.

"That sounds wonderful, sweetheart," Mr. Argent says. "I'm sure Mr. Yukimora won't know what hit him."

"That's the idea," Allison says, and shoves a huge bite of her pancake into her mouth.

"Well I have to run some errands in town today so when you're ready to go let me know and I'll give you a ride," he says.

"Dad, you don't have to do that," Allison protests weakly.

"Oh, I don't mind," he says mildly.

"Dad"-

"End of discussion," Mr. Argent says quietly, and Allison slumps back into her chair and pouts for the rest of the meal.

"What the hell was that about?" Lydia asks, when she and Allison are back upstairs changing in her room.

Allison sighs and tugs a pink and navy patterned thermal henley over her head. "He's freaking out about me and Scott."

Lydia steals Allison's pair of grey cable knit tights out of her underwear drawer and yanks them on, folding the fabric at the bottom over a few times, and pulls her miniskirt on over them. "Again?"

Allison steps into a pair of worn faded jeans and rifles through her dresser. "Scott's mom found his condoms when she was cleaning his room last week. Collective parental freak-out."

"I'm sorry," Lydia says sympathetically, reaching behind herself to fasten the clasp of her bra.

"It's fine. My dad just needs some time to cool off; you know how he is. Here." Allison passes her a cream vee neck jersey tunic with little gold embroidery stitched around the collar. "You can borrow this."

"Thanks." Lydia puts on the borrowed top and digs out her hairbrush out of her bag. "Are you sure everything is okay?"

Allison smiles but it doesn't reach her eyes. "Yeah. Everything is fine."

/

When Mr. Argent drops them off at The Bookstall half-an-hour later he rolls down his window and says, "I'll pick you up in an hour," and drives away before Allison can argue.

It turns out that Allison actually does need a book; she tracks it down while Lydia finds a table in the back of the store to sit at. She pulls her book on the Romanov family out of her book bag, fingers flipping through the pages to find her place.

"Found it!" Allison's holding up a tome of a book with a photograph of a barren winter landscape on the cover, looking relieved. "Thank god they have this, I'm so behind."

"Maybe you're spending too much time with your boyfriend," Lydia says lightly.

"Oh screw you," Allison says, but there's no venom in it; she just sinks into her chair and pulls out a highlighter.

Lydia picks up reading where she left off and it's easy to get lost in the Winter Palace, playing in lavishly decorated rooms with four sisters and a fragile baby brother. When she looks up after almost half an hour Allison's on her phone, the fingers of her left hand tapping against the table.

"Bored already?" Lydia asks with a smirk.

"I need more coffee," Allison says abruptly, pushing away from the table, and slings her bag over her shoulder. "I'll be back in a few minutes, okay?"

Lydia shrugs in acknowledgment, flips another page and watches Allison walk through the children's section in the direction of the coffee bar attached to the far side of the store.

Lydia goes back to reading her book, annotating quotes she plans to use to support her thesis, and when she checks the time on her phone she sees that they only have fifteen minutes until Mr. Argent gets back.

Where is Allison?

Something is gnawing at Lydia, she feels compelled to put her book back in her bag and get up to look for Allison, even though by doing so she's forfeiting one of the only open tables. She walks through the children's section, a warm affectionate feeling blooming in her chest as she passes the stories of her childhood: Anne of Green Gables, the His Dark Materials trilogy, The Westing Game.

She's in the center aisle, the coffee bar directly ahead of her through an archway, when someone calls out "Lydia?" and when she turns she sees Stiles a few feet away by a wall of comic books, holding a huge iced coffee.

"What are you doing here?" she asks, and winces internally at how rude she sounds.

"I'm here with Scott," he says. "Are you" -

"With Allison," she confirms. "Let me guess, coming here was Scott's idea?"

Stiles slaps his palm against his face. "Did Allison desperately need some random book they only carry here?"

Lydia bites her lip, pushing down a wave of fury - Allison lied to her just so she could have a quick hookup with Scott? Really?

"Hey," Stiles says. He's wearing his red hoody and his hair is extra messy today. "How are you doing?"

"Fine," Lydia bites out.

"Lydia." Stiles shuffles closer to her, his Converse sneakers squeaking against the floor. "How are you really?"

"Why didn't you tell me you have a girlfriend?" she spits out, shocking him so badly that Stiles chokes on his coffee.

"Why didn't I - tell you a -what now?" Stiles gapes at her.

Lydia squirms in place. "I saw you with her last night. At the party."

"At the party? Oh..." Comprehension dawns over his face and then to her surprise he flushes. "That's not - I don't - that was just Heather."

Lydia crosses her arms tightly against her chest. "And who's Heather?"

"She's just a friend," he says meekly. "I've known her my whole life, we used to like, take baths together when we were toddlers."

Lydia can't help but feel suspicious. "So she's just friend?"

"Uh, yeah." Stiles bobs his head. "Pretty much."

"Pretty much?" Lydia mocks. "What does that mean?"

Stiles sighs, looking supremely embarrassed. "I lost my virginity to her last year," he says quickly.

"You had _sex_ with her?" It makes her feel like breaking something, the idea of Stiles with that girl, whispering sweet things into her ear, making her come, holding her in his arms.

"Once?" Stiles squeaks. "It was kind of a situational-specific moment."

Lydia tilts her head. "Details."

"Oh my god." Stiles groans and covers his face. "Seriously?"

Lydia slinks up to him a bit, closing the space between them. "Well, we're friends aren't we?"

Stiles peeks out at her between two fingers. "So?"

"So friends tell each other things," she says sweetly. "I'm curious, indulge me."

"Ah, okay, well." Stiles gulps, looking nervous. "It was her birthday, she wanted a hookup, I wanted to lose my virginity. We're friends, we trust each other. It was mutually beneficial to both parties."

"So she's not your girlfriend."

Stiles lets out a dry laugh. "I'm as single as I've always been, Lydia."

"That's not a bad thing," she says lightly, offering him a tentative smile.

Stiles shrugs. "I guess it's hard not to feel left out sometimes, you know?"

"I'll make sure you don't get left out," she says and almost regrets the words, because they sound vaguely like she's making a promise of some sorts, but then Stiles is smiling at her, really smiling.

"You know you can tell me stuff too, right?" he offers.

Lydia nods, absentmindedly rubbing her wrists. "I know." Through the window she can see an SUV pull up to the curb and realizes with a flash of horror that it's Mr. Argent.

"So, Lydia"-

"Shit!" Lydia exclaims, and pulls out her phone to text Allison. "Sorry, Allison's dad just got here."

Stiles nods and pulls his phone out of his pocket. "I'll text Scott. Saturation bombing seems to be the only technique they respond to."

"Thanks," she says, and then she's just standing there with him, almost toe to toe, and it feels like something big but she doesn't know why.

"So," Stiles says. "I'll, uh, see you on Monday I guess?"

"Yeah." Lydia cranes her head but she can't she Allison anywhere. "I better go out there and stall."

"Okay." Stiles makes an abortive movement with his hand, like he wants to touch her but is too tentative to do it.

Lydia remembers his hands on her last night, how he was so gentle, so nice to her, and he's not with that girl, he said so himself. Lydia rises up on her toes and carefully puts her arms around him, finds that space between his neck and shoulder where her face fits perfectly. "Thank you," she whispers. "For last night."

Stiles wraps his arms around her and one of his hands comes up to cup the back of her head. "Anytime," he says, his voice shaking a little.

She hesitates for a moment, mourning his loss when she finally makes herself pull away. "Bye Stiles."

His hand smoothes over the back of her head as she pulls away. "Bye Lydia."

Outside Mr. Argent has gotten out the car, he's standing on the curb and leaning against the passenger side door with his arms crossed, his face a mystery behind tinted aviator sunglasses. "Lydia," he nods, his voice polite but also a little sharp. "Where's" -

"Sorry, sorry!" Allison burst out of the entrance closest to the coffee bar, holding a cardboard to-go tray with three cardboard coffee cups. "The line was _insane_. Coffee, Dad?"

"Thanks sweetheart," Mr. Argent says wryly, but he takes the cup she offers and walks around the car to get in the driver's seat.

"Where were you?" Lydia hisses.

"Not here," Allison hushes her, pushing a latte into her hands. "Later."

Lydia rolls her eyes but follows Allison into the backseat of the car. Allison is chatting loudly, telling her dad a load of bullshit about her paper and how the barista was new and _there were like, a million people ahead of me and I'm so sorry but you did get here five minutes early Dad, don't you trust me even a little..._

Lydia stares out of her window, fingers playing with the lid of her cup. When Mr. Argent pulls the car out the parking space Lydia can see Stiles, nose up against the glass door of the bookstore, Scott right next to him, watching the car, one hand flat against the glass, like he's waving at her.

They pull out into traffic and Lydia presses her palm against her window, watching them recede in the review mirror, until they're gone, like she imagined them.


	6. Chapter 6

"Jackson is staring at you again," Allison whispers halfway through chemistry lab Monday morning.

Lydia shifts subtly in her stool so she can catch a glimpse of Jackson, two tables back and one row over, where he's sitting with Danny. He's not even being remotely subtle about it; his blue eyes are completely fixed on her. When Lydia does a slow spin all the way around she can see Scott and Stiles staring just as openly at Jackson as Jackson is at her.

"Let him," she says flippantly to Allison. "It's not his fault I look so good."

And she does look good. Her hair is meticulously curled and brushed out into voluminous waves and her lips are slick with that coral Stila lipgloss she knows Jackson secretly loves.

"Aren't you cold though?" Allison whispers.

Lydia adjusts the strap of her cream lace top, sheer enough to show the bright purple bandeau bra she's wearing underneath and ignores the fact that her legs are covered in goose bumps in her navy crepe shorts.

When she turns around Jackson's still staring.

Lydia smirks and slides sideways on her stool to check Allison's work against her own. "Worth it."

Jackson may have gotten the best of her Friday night but Lydia's prepared now, he's not going to beat her. She may love him but she's not stupid. She refuses to be one of those girls, the ones who let boys break them until they're a pile of jagged pieces no one else could ever love.

"Are you ever going to tell me what really happened?" Allison asks quietly.

Lydia closes the fingers of her right hand over her left wrist and strokes the thump shaped bruised imprinted on her skin. "Let's just say I realized I was bored, so..."

She lets the implication hang, like she doesn't care, like it doesn't matter. Like the first boy she ever loved didn't turn her into a girl who can't even look at herself in the mirror anymore.

Allison looks shocked. "You got _bored?_ "

"Mm-hm."

"And you told him that?"

"Not in so many words."

"Wait, Lydia." Allison's hand is warm against her arm. "Did you guys break up?"

Lydia flips to a blank page in her notebook and starts to doodle the curling branches of a tree. "We didn't discuss the details."

Allison purses her lips, looking a bit stunned. "Well, that would definitely explain the staring."

/

When it's lunchtime Lydia walks through the doors of the cafeteria and heads directly for Allison, where she's sitting towards the back at a table with Scott, Stiles and Isaac. Lydia takes long confident strides in her wedges because her hair looks fabulous and her makeup is perfectly applied and Stiles is across the room, half turned around in his seat, pretending he's not watching her but he definitely, totally is.

And then Jackson appears in the middle of the aisle, blocking her path.

Lydia crosses her arms over her chest. "Do you mind?"

Jackson clenches his jaw. "So that's it?" He tips his chin back towards Scott and Allison. "You're with them now?"

"Well I'm not with _you_ ," she says pointedly.

"No," he sneers. "I guess you're not."

Lydia straightens her spine; she has an extra four inches in height from the cork wedges she's wearing today. "Then get out of my way."

"One thing first." Jackson takes another step closer, so he's looming over her. "What did he offer you?"

She stares up at him. "What are you talking about?"

"I think you know what I'm taking about," he grinds out.

Lydia blinks rapidly. "Why do you care if Stiles and I are hanging out? I told you, he's Allison's boyfriend's best friend, he's just around. He didn't _bribe_ me."

For some reason Jackson looks incredulous. "You think I care if you give Stilinski what he's been jerking off to since he discovered his dick? If you wanna lower your standards by all means, go for it."

Over Jackson's shoulder Lydia sees Scott whip around in his seat to stare at them even though he's too far away to hear what Jackson is saying.

"Then what the hell are you talking about?" she snaps.

His hand closes over her upper arm, his palm hot against her bare skin. "I want to know what he gave you!"

 _You should tell him to let it go. He's never going to give it to him._

Isaac, in the nurse's office. He wasn't talking nonsense, he was talking about Jackson. Lydia starts to shake, the noise of the cafeteria rising to a nauseating shrill overtone.

How did she manage to forget, that this was never just about her and Jackson? It's about Jackson and Scott; Jackson's obsession with him, the mysterious secret Allison is keeping from her.

 _If I've lied to you, it's only because I'm trying to protect you._

How could Lydia possibly miss this, that it's all connected? Her and Jackson, Jackson and Scott, Scott and Allison, Stiles, Isaac.

"Lydia!" Jackson shakes her arm and behind him Lydia can see Scott jump halfway out of his chair, Stiles' hand pushing down on his shoulder to keep him in his seat.

They're staring at them. Allison and Isaac are too, looking terrified, like they're waiting for Jackson to break her arm in the middle of the cafeteria.

Lydia's heart contracts in her chest. "What who gave me?"

His hand squeezes and she has to swallow a squeak. "Derek! Did he give it to you?"

 _Derek?_ The only Derek Lydia knows of is Derek Hale, and what could he possibly have to do with any of this?

"I don't know what you're talking about," she whispers.

"Don't lie to me," he growls.

"I'm not lying," she breathes. She's never truly been afraid of him before but there's something about him now that makes her sick with fear. He looks unhinged, his skin flushed, eyes dark and narrowed.

Like a desperate man, the kind of person who will stop at nothing to get what he wants.

"Lydia, tell me what you know!" Jackson demands.

Lydia can only blink up at him, speechless, his fingers so tight on her arm his knuckles are turning white and it happens again, the glint of a blade flashing in his eyes.

His eyes used to be so beautiful. Like a wide open sky on a cloudless day. Like the clearest ocean water, something that refracts light and sends it scattering in a million directions, so that everywhere you look it sparkles. She used to see medals in those eyes, trophies, wedding rings.

They used to be so beautiful together.

They used to be so beautiful but now when she looks at Jackson all she sees is darkness.

And Lydia understands, for the first time, what exactly it is that Allison wants to save her from.

If Lydia stays it will get inside her, poison her, turn her into the girl she saw in the mirror - someone who bleeds pain, a girl possessed. His darkness will attach to her like a shadow, curl up around her body at night, weave its way into her bones and sip at her marrow until all her light is gone.

"Let go of me," she says softly. "Please Jackson. You don't have to do this."

Jackson leans down, so close that he could kiss her if he so desired. Like a Dementor, she thinks wildly, sucking out her soul piece by piece with every bruise he leaves on her body. "Just tell me, Lydia, tell me first. Is he going to give it to you? What did he say?"

She twists her arm but he's stronger than her, she can't get out of his hold. "I don't know anything, okay? They don't tell me anything."

For the first time he looks uncertain. "Wait, really?"

"Yes, _really_ ," she hisses. "So can you please let go of me now?"

"But - you _know_ , right?"

"Know what?"

"Oh my god." To her shock Jackson starts to laugh, releasing her to bring his hands up to his mouth. "Are you serious? You really don't know?"

She hates the way he's looking at her, like he's found an ace he didn't even know he had, like he's delighted by her ignorance. "Obviously not," she mutters.

"I have to say, you've actually surprised me. I thought you definitely figured it out first." Jackson looks unbearably smug all of a sudden.

She's lightheaded again, her ears are beginning to ring and she's getting that cold clammy feeling like she might vomit.

Jackson knows.

This whole time, everything Allison's been keeping from her, every coded look between her and Scott and Stiles, Jackson knew and he didn't tell her.

"Figured out what?" she whispers tremulously.

He gives her a cocky grin. "I can't believe you really don't know. This must be driving you crazy."

"Jackson," she pleads softly. She can't make herself look up anymore, can't face him now that she knows this. She feels a hot wave of humiliation, only a few hours ago she thought that she knew everything.

"Wow Lydia," Jackson says casually, "I didn't know you were actually as dumb as you look."

Lydia stumbles back as if she's been slapped. She watches him, her eyes filling with tears as Jackson smirks and saunters away, leaving her frozen in the middle of the cafeteria.

It only takes a few seconds before Stiles vaults out of his seat, backpack slung over one shoulder, and hurries towards her, weaving between tables until he's standing in front of her. "Lydia," he says urgently, "hey, are you okay?"

"I" - Lydia's ears fill with tears and her throat closes up. She can't look anywhere but his face, pleading silently at him to understand, to not need her words to know what she needs.

"Lydia," he says gently, holding his hands out to her like they're alone, like no one's watching. "Hey, it's okay."

It's not though. It's a lie, because this is it, she's about to cry in front of the entire student body. She wants to disappear; she wants to lie down on the cold nasty cafeteria floor and go to sleep. She inhales but her chest is so tight in turns into a strangled gasp. "Please. Stiles" -

"It's okay," he says quickly. He reaches down and claps her hand, and she has to swallow a sob. "Come on, it's okay."

He hustles her out of the cafeteria, his right hand tight around her left, his other hand gripping her shoulder. Her breath comes in short tight gasps as they walk out into the hallway and towards the side door that leads to the picnic tables outside.

"Hang on," Stiles says, his thumb running back and forth over the back of her hand, like he knows it's taking all of her composure not to fall apart right here. "Almost there."

He walks her through the courtyard to the parking lot and pulls his car keys out of a side pocket of his backpack, unlocks the Jeep and opens the passenger side door. "Get in," he instructs.

Lydia obeys because her chest is burning, muscles in her jaw clenching as she tries to keep her tears inside her body. Stiles shuts the door behind her and walks around the car and gets in the driver's seat. His door slams and the sound is all it takes for her to break, now that they're alone, now that no one can hear her.

Lydia covers her face in her hands and bursts into tears.

"Oh, Lydia," Stiles murmurs. He leans over the console like he's going to touch her and Lydia shifts away, pressing herself against the door.

"Don't," she cries into her hands, because she never wanted anyone to see her cry, she can't take him seeing her like this.

Seeing what Jackson did to her, what Lydia _let_ him do to her.

He'll know now, all the ways she's soft and weak inside, how she let Jackson take and take because she needed it, needed someone to show her who she was, prove it in blood, so that she could feel the ache in her bones promising that she was real, she was here.

Because it was love. It was love, wasn't it? Her wrists in his hands, his fingers turning her white skin swirling shades of purple and blue, blood roses blooming up her arms like a dark garden, like a night sky.

She used to think that was beautiful too.

"Lydia," Stiles says again, his voice so soft that it only makes her cry harder. "Lydia, it's okay."

Lydia curls her feet up under her so she can bend over and press her forehead against her knees. "Don't look at me," she sobs. She's never done this, lost control like this and it's awful. "Please, I hate, I hate this" -

"Okay," Stiles soothes. There's light pressure on her left shoulder, the warmth of his hand on her bare skin. "I'll just sit here, okay? And you can cry or yell or do whatever you need to do and I'll just. I'll be here."

So they sit there in his car while Lydia cries, hiding her face, his hand firm on her shoulder. And for the first time since Lydia became friends with him Stiles doesn't say anything, just makes sympathetic noises and rubs the tips of his fingers in little circles against her skin.

She runs out of steam after only a few minutes, sniffling into the back of her hand and staring out the windshield so she doesn't have to see the look on his face. Stiles slides his hand from her shoulder to the back of her neck and Lydia tenses, thinking of Jackson, how sometimes he'd grip her neck and start to twist, just a bit...

"Hey, Lydia." Stiles flips his hand over to run his fingers through her hair. "Talk to me."

She doesn't want to say it, because if she says it, then it's real. She tips her head back against the headrest and swallows thickly. "We broke up."

"Lydia." His voice is so soft and slow when he says her name that she turns to him involuntarily, like she's lost, like she's searching for something.

Amber eyes burn gold in the weak rays of sunshine coming in through the windows. Lydia latches onto them, like she's found a lone lighthouse in the middle of a dark ocean, shining just for her.

"I'm sorry," he says, and he sounds so earnest, like he really means it, that she almost believes him.

"No you're not," she says, because it's the truth and she can't pretend, she can't lie anymore and she won't let him either.

Stiles winces. "Okay yeah, I'm not going to lie and say that I'm devastated but...I'm sorry that you're hurting."

It's almost enough to make her start crying again. Lydia squeezes her eyes shut, blocking out everything; the light, his hand in her hair, the way he's looking at her, like she's a shattered vase and he's just waiting for her permission to glue her back together.

Is that what she wants? Stiles' hands on her body, bending and molding her until she's beautiful again, until she's a girl a boy could love.

Remembers tracing her fingers down her own naked body and pretending they were his.

"Hey Lydia. Can you look at me?" he asks softly.

She shakes her head, eyes still shut. "I look awful when I cry."

"C'mon, you look beautiful when you cry," he contradicts, and it's enough, just his voice, to make her eyes flutter open.

She gets trapped in his gaze; he's leaning over the gearshift, plaid shirt rolled up to the elbows, revealing sinewy forearms. She wished she didn't know suddenly, what it felt like, to have his arms around her, for him to frame her face in his hands, how it makes her feel safe and alive and seen.

It'd be so easy, to let herself go all the way, fall into him, give him anything, _anything_ , just to feel that again.

"Can I?" Stiles holds both hands up to her face and after a moments hesitation she nods.

Hands settle over her cheekbones and his thumbs come up underneath her eyes. Gentle pressure from his fingers makes her tilt her head back and Stiles runs his thumbs underneath her eyes, slow and firm, mascara-tinted tears coming off on his skin.

"There," he says gently. "See? Still beautiful. Just less mascara-y."

Her cheeks flush while Stiles wipes his hands carefully on his shirt and from inside the school the bell rings, indicating that the lunch period has ended. Lydia sighs and swallows back a fresh wave of tears.

"You okay?" Stiles asks hesitantly. "Do you want to skip precalc? Because I will totally cut in solidarity with you."

Lydia flips down the sun visor and observes her reflection in the mirror: her skin is pink and blotchy but thanks to Stiles her makeup isn't running down her face.

"One second," she murmurs, and aggressively applies concealer around her eyes. "I'm not going to let Jackson Whittemore be the reason I miss a test."

"Atta girl," Stiles says cheerfully, and hops out of the Jeep, jogs around the front of the car and opens her door for her.

Lydia grasps the hand he offers her as she steps down, taking an unsure step in her wedges as he reaches around her to slam the passenger door shut. Lydia turns toward school but then Stiles' hand is on her wrist but it's so light, and she lets him use the gentle pull of momentum to turn her back around to face him.

"Stiles?" Her voice cracks and splinters, seven different emotions spilling out from just that one word, his name that's not really his name but it's so _him_ that it doesn't matter.

He puts his arms around her, pulls her into a tight embrace and Lydia goes willingly, allowing her cheek to be crushed to his chest, reaching down to set her hands against his hips.

"Just let me hold you for a second," he whispers. She shudders at that, teeth clamping down against the sound she inadvertently makes, like she's some little touch-starved thing dying to be held.

One of his hands come up to cup the back of her head. Lydia lets out a stuttering sigh and breathes him in, lets herself revel in the sensation of being held, like she could shatter and he'd go right on holding her, like his hands could perform magic: heal her, fix her, find the cold spot in the center of her heart and melt it until she can feel again.

Until she could be the kind of girl who could love a boy like him the way he deserves to be loved.

"The bell's about to ring," she whispers. "We're going to be late."

Stiles pulls away and Lydia already regrets saying anything, immediately so cold without the warmth of his body around her. There's something in his expression, like he knows, like he's trying to figure it out: what makes her walls come down, what triggers her, like all her idiosyncrasies are a code he thinks he can breaks.

Stiles flashes her a sardonic smile. "Well we definitely don't want to be late." He reaches down and slides his hand in hers and it's almost embarrassing, how quickly Lydia clutches onto it.

Stiles gives her a serious look. "Okay?"

Lydia takes a deep breath and watches the sunlight hit his face. He doesn't have Jackson's bone structure but there's something better about the way he looks, something warm and endearing and soft.

She stands there next to him and just watches for a moment: his face, the light, her small hand enveloped in his. "Yes," she says firmly, like she's making a decision. "Okay."

/

Allison is waiting for her outside the locker room at the beginning of seventh period still dressed in her street clothes, skinny black jeans and a cropped grey tee shirt, leather jacket draped over one arm.

"What's going on?" Lydia asks, bemused. "Are you cutting gym?"

"Oh no." Allison grins. " _We're_ cutting."

Lydia grins back, pleased. Jackson was right about one thing; she doesn't give a shit about PE. "Is that right?"

Allison slings her arm around Lydia's shoulder. "Come on, you're a single woman now, right? Lets go celebrate your freedom."

She and Allison leave school and Allison drives them to their favorite frozen yogurt spot. Lydia can't help but feel slightly bitter at how Allison is reveling in her and Jackson's breakup but it's hard to be angry when Allison looks so happy, wrapping her arms around Lydia while they wait in line, positively beaming while Lydia heaps sliced strawberries over her yogurt.

Lydia waits until they're sitting at a table by the windows and Allison has a scoop of hazelnut yogurt with blueberries in her mouth to ask, "So, what's the deal with this thing Derek gave to Scott?"

Allison chokes, her eyes filling with tears, and she gasps and breaks out in a coughing fit. " _What?_ "

Lydia swirls her spoon around in her yogurt. "You heard me."

Allison dry swallows and gulps down half her cup of water. "Derek who?"

Lydia narrows her eyes. "Derek Hale."

Allison's mouth drops open. "Since when do you know Derek Hale?"

"I met him last week," Lydia says casually.

"You _met_ him?" For some reason Allison sounds shocked.

"With Stiles. Well, more like ran into him. Stiles says that he knows Scott."

Allison tenses. "Yeah, they've...I guess you could say they're acquainted."

Lydia raises an eyebrow. "So you know him?"

Allison leans forward on her elbows. "Look, I don't know what Stiles told you about Derek but you should stay away from him."

"Is he dangerous?"

Allison's mouth twists. "Let's just say he isn't very nice."

"And you know that how, exactly?"

Allison's gaze drops down to her lap. "Our families don't get alone."

A chill runs up Lydia's spine. "I thought his family was dead."

Allison looks distinctly uncomfortable. "They are."

"Then how does your family know him, exactly?"

"He knew my Aunt Kate," Allison whispers.

Lydia almost falls out of her chair. Allison never talks about Kate, all Lydia knows is that she came to Beacon Hills last year for a visit and left in a body bag.

"Well now I know why you never mentioned him," Lydia murmurs.

"Lydia." Allison reaches across the table and clasps Lydia's hands in her own. "Promise me that you're being careful."

Lydia slowly pulls her hands away from Allison. "Why would I need to be careful?"

"Lydia, please." Allison's starting to look afraid. "Just stay out of it, okay?"

"Stay out of what, exactly?" Lydia stabs at a strawberry with her spoon.

"Lydia, I'm serious," Allison hisses. "Look, if my dad even knew we were talking about Derek he would have a stroke."

"So what, I've accidentally stumbled into a family feud?"

Allison rubs her temples. "Yeah that's one way of putting it."

"So how does Jackson fit into it?"

"What?"

"Jackson," Lydia says sharply. "Why is he so interested in Derek and Scott?"

"Lacrosse," Allison says quickly. "He's trying to get Scott off the team."

Lydia stares blankly at her. What is Allison talking about? "Lacrosse?" she asks disbelievingly. "This is seriously all just about lacrosse?"

Allison shrugs. "I guess Jackson thinks if he can dig up enough dirt on Scott he can get him kicked off the team."

"And you know this how, exactly?"

"Jackson told him as much."

Lydia thinks about Jackson in the cafeteria, bleeding anger, fury etched in every line of his face, the sheer desperation in his voice.

His hand like a vice around her arm, his voice heavy with threats. _Tell me what you know!_

Whatever Jackson was talking about, it didn't have anything to do with lacrosse. Allison is lying to her. Unless she really doesn't know either and is just repeating a lie that Scott told her.

Scott wouldn't lie to Allison. Would he?

"Okay," Lydia says cautiously. "I'll be careful."

Allison exhales with her whole body, like she can't contain her relief. "Thank you."

"Mm."

Allison gives her big pleading eyes. "You know I just want you to be safe right?"

The words she said to Stiles that night in Allison's car come back to her. _I feel like I don't know anything anymore._

"Yeah," Lydia lies softly, watching how Allison's hands tremble as she wipes them on a napkin. Liar or not, Allison is definitely afraid of something. "I know."

/

She gets a text from Jackson at nine-thirty that night, when she's finishing up her lab write-up.

 _Did I leave my history book in your car?_

Lydia swears softly to herself and puts her chemistry homework away. She goes downstairs and gets the car keys from the ceramic dish on the hall table and goes out to the driveway. She finds Jackson's book on the floor of the backseat, half-hidden under a navy and white striped cardigan Allison must have left behind the other week.

 _Found it, I'll give it back at school tomorrow._

Before she can even make it back inside her phone vibrates with another text.

 _I need it tonight, Kira said Yukimora always gives a pop quiz on Pearl Harbor._

Lydia grits her teeth and texts back as she walks inside her house.

 _Fine._

She runs back up to her room and pulls on a pair of leggings under her grey fleece-lined sweatshirt dress because Allison was right, she was freezing all day in her shorts and they're broken up now, there's no need to show Jackson her skin, to offer herself to him like she's an unblemished canvas for him to cover with his dreams and nightmares, paint her with bruises.

She tosses her wallet and phone into her cream Rebecca Minkoff cross-body bag and runs back downstairs, jams her feet into a pair of white leather platform sneakers, and sticks Jackson's book under her arm.

"Mom, I'm dropping a book off at Jackson's," she calls out. "I'll be back in half an hour!"

She dumps her bag and Jackson's book in the passenger seat and starts the car. Her hands are shaking so she takes a deep breath, turns on her headlights and checks every mirror before slowly backing out of the driveway.

 _You're not afraid_ , she tells herself. _You are strong, you are better then this, you don't need him to break you into pieces to show you who you are._

Not anymore.

When she turns down Jackson's street and pulls her car over to the curb she can see Mr. Lahey walking out of his house. Lydia shifts into park, takes the keys out of the ignition and watches Isaac follow his dad outside, wearing only a pair of jeans and a white vee neck that glows in the light from the streetlamp, even though the temperature has continued to drop into the high fifties since the sun when down.

It's a myth that California is always warm. It's a desert; it gets chilly at night in late autumn and winter. Lydia reaches for her bag and stops cold when she hears a shout, turns back to her window and slouches down in her seat.

Isaac is trying to follow his dad to their car but Mr. Lahey won't let him. He's yelling and shoving Isaac off him. Isaac, who's stumbling around on the front lawn like he's disoriented, grabbing wildly at his father. Mr. Lahey is faster and stronger; he shakes Isaac off him like he's a dog, sending him sprawling into the grass.

Lydia watches Mr. Lahey practically jump into his car and drive away, the tires squealing against the pavement. Isaac pulls himself off the ground and turns towards the street, Lydia watches him watch his father drive away, stagger backwards across his lawn and sink down on the steps outside his house.

Lydia's phone buzzes, flashing a blue light that bounces around the interior of the car. Jackson. _Where are you? Are you outside?_

She slings her bag over her shoulder, scoops up his book and gets out of the car. She doesn't let herself look back towards Isaac, she keeps her head down and focuses on each step up the walkway to the front door like she's in line for the guillotine.

The door opens just as she makes it to the porch, Jackson must have been waiting in the foyer. He's wearing sweatpants and his lacrosse hoody and he looks tired, older, not the cocky little shit who walked away from her in the cafeteria today.

"Hey," he says, and reaches out to take his book from her. "Thanks for doing this."

"You're welcome," she says stiffly.

Jackson nods. "I uh...if you want to wait for a minute some of your stuff is still in my room."

Lydia feels a flash of pain in her chest, like a warning. "It's fine," she says coolly. "I don't care."

His face softens and that makes it worse, that she can see the boy he used to be, the parts of him she still loves. "Lydia."

"I have to go." She stumbles backwards out of the doorway, clutching her car keys in her fist. "My mother's expecting me."

"Okay." He leans in and Lydia's whole body goes cold but he only kisses her cheek before pulling away. "Drive safe."

She walks back down the porch stairs and across the stone walkway like she's floating, her heart cramping painfully in her chest, the metal ignition key cold in her palm. Across the street Isaac is still outside, sitting on the top step, slumped over, head in his hands.

Lydia gets to her car and hesitates. Weighs going home, having a cup of tea and going to bed against Isaac, who hasn't moved, who's sitting outside in the cold like a dog waiting for his abusive owner to unchain him.

Lydia wonders if Isaac gets cold the way she does sometimes. If she leaves him here is she leaving him alone to fall asleep in the snow? Is she so cruel, that she would condemn him to that?

 _Just make a choice._

Lydia crosses the street quickly, her bag smacking lightly against her hip as she jogs up Isaac's lawn. "Hey," she calls out softly. "Did you get locked out?"

Isaac lifts his head at the sound of her voice and Lydia involuntarily lets out a loud gasp because Isaac's left eye is swollen and bruised purple-black, it's so bad it makes his entire face look distorted and Lydia would bet the contents of her wallet that his orbital bone is fractured.

"Did he do this to you?" Lydia has to curl her nails into her palms to keep herself from crying. "Isaac? Isaac, where did your dad go?"

Isaac's staring at her, looking dazed. "Liquor store," he mumbles.

"Okay." Lydia crouches down in front of him. "Isaac, we have to go."

Isaac shivers. "What?"

"Isaac!" Her voice sounds borderline hysterical. There's a liquor store only six blocks away, they have minutes at best until Mr. Lahey comes back. "We have to go, now!"

"Can't," Isaac rasps. His breathing sounds off, like he can't get a full breath of air. "He told me to wait here."

"Isaac, he _hurt_ you."

"It's not as bad as it looks." He coughs wetly and twists away to spit blood over the railing.

Something inside her breaks, a storm that's been brewing inside her for weeks finally crashing down. "Get up!" she demands. "Isaac Lahey, you get up right now!"

Isaac wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "I can't."

She holds her hands out to him, pleading. "You have to."

Isaac starts to shake. "You should go. He's going to be back soon."

"I'm not leaving without you."

"Lydia, please" -

"Get up!" she shrieks. "We have to go, _please_ , Isaac, get up!"

To her surprise he actually listens, pulls himself up by gripping the railing. "Why?" he asks, his voice cracking.

"Because I can't leave you here." She grabs onto his hand and drags him dwon the lawn while he stumbles over his feet, crosses the street to her car, unlocks it and shoves him into the passenger seat. He's almost limp, too compliant, even as he curls over in the seat, his face pale against the moonlight.

"Where can I take you?" she asks, buckling her seatbelt and staring out at the street, adrenaline pumping as she looks for a swing of headlights indicating Mr. Lahey's return, but the street is dark and quiet.

Isaac shrugs.

Lydia bites back a sound of frustration. "We can't sit here all night. Is there somewhere you can go?"

Isaac shifts in his seat and lets out a little pained noise. "Do you think...Scott?"

Lydia sighs in relief. Scott will help her; Scott will know what to do. "Good idea."

She drives in silence all the way to the McCalls; the only sound the disturbing rattling of Isaac's breathing. He's too pale, Lydia wonders what she would find if she reached over and peeled up his shirt, if there would be a ladder of bruises over his ribs.

She has to help him out of the car, gets Isaac to put his arm around her as she walks him up the sidewalk because he clearly can't see out of his swollen left eye and is zigzagging all over the grass. They get up to the front porch and Lydia rings the bell. The porch light snaps on with an electric hum and it only takes a few seconds for Scott to come to the door; his hair is damp and he's wearing a pair of Beacon Hills sweatpants and a tee shirt with the sleeves cut off.

"Hey guys - oh my god, Isaac!" Scott's eyes widen; he looks shocked. "What happened?"

"Nothing," Isaac mumbles.

Scott's expression tips over into horror. "You're _hurt_. Oh my god, Isaac, that looks really bad."

"It's not that bad." Isaac stumbles over his feet and Lydia shoves him back upright.

"What happened?" Scott's eyes dart between her and Isaac, waiting for an explanation.

"I'm sorry," Lydia whispers to Isaac, because he kept her secret but she can't keep his, not now, not like this. "It was his dad."

Isaac's expression crumples into betrayal. "It's not a big deal" -

"Your dad did this to you?" Scott looks disgusted. "He hit you?"

Isaac flinches. "He was drunk, he didn't mean it"-

"Don't," Scott snaps, and reaches out to clasp his hand over Isaac's shoulder. "Don't try to make this okay." His eyes slide over to Lydia. "Did you drive here?"

She nods, watching Isaac out of the corner of her eye. He looks like it's taking everything in him not to keel over.

"Good." Scott bends down and grabs a pair of sneakers from a shoe rack and pulls them on, ties the laces so quickly she swears his fingers blur. "I need you to give us a ride to the hospital. I don't have a car, my mom's on shift."

"I can drive you," she agrees, at the same time Isaac gasps and tries to stumble away.

"No," Isaac bites out. "No hospitals."

"Isaac," Scott says disapprovingly. "Come on, you're hurt, we have to get you checked out."

"No!" Isaac starts to shake his head and ends up gasping in pain, cupping his hand over his eye. "Please, Scott."

"Isaac." Scott's voice is soft and very sad. "I'm sorry man. You have to let us take you."

"I said no." Isaac sounds like he's about to cry. "I just need a place to crash until he calms down, please Scott, please, you can't, please" -

"Isaac, stop." Scott reaches out and pulls Isaac to him, his arms wrapping around him tightly in an embrace so Isaac can't get away. "I know you're scared but I need you to trust me, okay? Can you do that for me?"

Isaac lets out a whimper and drops his head to Scott's shoulder. "I don't know."

Lydia bites the inside of her cheek, willing herself not to cry either. She's well aware of the parallel, that this could've easily been her, broken and bloody in Scott's arms.

"I know you can do it." Scott's talking very calmly, edging Isaac forward without letting him go. "I'm right here, I won't let anyone hurt you. You know me Isaac, you know that I'll keep you safe. You can trust me."

Scott nods to Lydia and she runs ahead, unlocking the door for him so Scott can slide into the backseat with Isaac while Lydia gets into the front and starts the car. She doesn't even make it down the block before Isaac leans forward in his seat. "Turn around!" he begs. "Lydia, turn around!"

"Don't!" Scott orders. "Don't listen to him."

"Let me out!" Isaac yells, and Lydia cries out when Isaac throws his whole body forcefully against his door. "Let me out, let me out!"

"Isaac, stop! Stop it!" From the review mirror Lydia can see Scott reach across the middle seat to grab Isaac, wrestling with him, pulling him away from the door.

Lydia pulls up to a red light and brakes. Isaac crumples over, sobbing, a steady stream of _please, please, please_ , falling from his lips as he kicks the back of her seat.

"Isaac." Scott is bent over him, getting his hands under his shoulders and pulling Isaac back so he gets trapped against Scott's chest. "Stop, you're going to hurt yourself!"

"He's going to find me!" Isaac gasps, struggling in Scott's hold. "He's going to find me, he's going to be so mad"-

"He won't get near you," Scott growls. "I swear Isaac, you know what I can do, he's not hurting you ever again."

The light turns green.

Lydia can see Isaac go limp against Scott as she turns onto the main road that leads to the hospital. He's crying, soft little whimpers while Scott wraps his arms around Isaac's chest, talking quietly in his ear. _Isaac, Isaac, trust me. It's okay; it's going to be okay. Trust me._

Lydia's hands are clenching the steering wheel so hard her fingers are cramping up. She breezes through another green light, listening as the rattle of Isaac's strangled breathing gets worse the more he cries.

"Scott," she can hear him snuffle quietly. "Will you...ask…give me..?"

When Lydia glances in the review mirror Scott's expression is dark and worried, one of his hands spread flat over Isaac's forehead to keep him still against Scott's shoulder. "Let's cross that bridge when we get to it, okay?" he says tightly.

When she gets to the hospital Lydia pulls around to the emergency room entrance and parks curbside. Scott gets out of the backseat and has to coax Isaac out of the car, holding his hands out to make sure Isaac doesn't fall, and props him up against a bench. Scott taps on the passenger side window and Lydia rolls it down for him, blinking rapidly against a swell of tears.

"Thanks for the ride," he says. "And for taking him to me."

Lydia has to swallow and reach down to pinch the meat of her thigh so she doesn't cry. "He was hurt," she says dumbly, like it's not obvious. "He needed you."

Scott sighs and thumps gently on the roof of the car. "Get home safe, okay?"

"Okay," she says, but she doesn't shift the car back into drive until Scott and Isaac make it inside.

She drives home on autopilot, throat aching like she might spontaneously burst into tears. Lydia turns the radio on and dials the volume up to ear shattering, screams out the lyrics as she drives. When she makes it back home she doesn't even remember how she got there, if she was speeding, what route she took.

Lydia tiptoes inside her dark house, toes off her sneakers and sneaks upstairs to her room. She peels off her tights and lies down on her bed, still in her dress. Her curtains are open and moonlight is filtering in through the window. She still needs to wash her face, brush her teeth, change out of her dress, but she's exhausted and shaking so she settles for using a makeup removing wipe and combs her hair up in a bun with her fingers. She pulls her knees up to her chest and lets her eyes shut.

She doesn't expect to fall asleep so quickly but it's the adrenaline crash, she shifts easily into sleep, without even being aware of it.

She dreams of a garden made out of organs, bloody beating hearts pushing up through the dirt. Roses the color of a day old bruise, rust tinted water raining down from a colorless sky. She wakes up without her alarm, jackknifing upright with a strangled scream.

It rushes back to her in a frenzied stream of memory: Isaac, his face, his fear, Scott, holding Isaac like a frightened child in the backseat of her car, murmuring promises of safety and reassurance.

She blinks around her room, disoriented, wondering what it was that woke her up and realizes she forgot to shut her curtains.

Sunlight, filtering through the glass, falling across the bedspread like a blessing, a sign from above, some divine offering. Lydia tilts her face back and feels the warmth of the light on her skin like she's been chosen, redeemed, gifted a second chance.

She lies back against her pillows and just breathes, lets herself feel it. Lets the light inside her, lets it cleanse her, fill her up from the inside out.

She gives in, lets it roll over her, through her, until her alarm goes off an hour later and she rises like a flower eager to greet the day, like a phoenix unfolding from the ashes.

Like a girl reborn.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Final Chapter, enjoy ;)**

Lydia is tying off the end of her fishtail side braid in front of her vanity mirror when her mother knocks on her open door. "Sweetheart, there's a Stiles here to see you."

"What?" Lydia responds absentmindedly, smoothing her hands over the skirt of her ivory and jade green jersey swing dress, her fingers tracing over its delicate foliage pattern.

Her mother raises her eyebrow. "He says he wants to know if you'd like a ride to school."

Lydia blinks, her brain finally putting it in order - Stiles, here, waiting for her. "Can you tell him I'll be down in a minute?"

Her mother gives her an amused smile. "Is there anything you want to tell me, honey?"

"No," Lydia says lightly.

"Alright." Her mother pushes away from the door frame and give her a knowing look. "I'm just saying, Jackson never picked you up for school."

"Go be a good host," Lydia scolds, and spends an extra two minutes perfecting her lip color before putting on her favorite grey wedge boots and going downstairs.

Stiles is waiting for her in the foyer, wearing a grey hoodie zipped just low enough to reveal the edge of the Captain America logo on his tee shirt, the keys to the Jeep dangling from one hand.

"Well," she says. "This is a surprise."

"A good one?" he asks. His hair is more disheveled than usual and his face looks a little crumpled, like he hasn't slept. Maybe she and Isaac aren't the only ones who had a bad night.

Lydia rolls her eyes and links her arm through his. "Come on, if we leave now we'll have time to stop for coffee."

Stiles groans appreciatively. "I like where your priorities are."

They stop at the coffeeshop on Main; Stiles illegally parallel parks and puts the hazards on. "It's fine." He waves a hand at the street sign, which clearly says No Parking 7:30-9:30 AM. "I know the Sheriff."

"Fabulous," she says dryly, and follows him inside.

Stiles orders a large black coffee and when the barista asks if he wants anything else Stiles turns to her, eyebrows raised expectantly. "Lydia?"

She contemplates ordering something simple like him before remembering that she is who she is and she's not going to do it anymore, pretend to be something she's not.

"Sugar free vanilla coconut latte," she orders regally, head held high like she's daring him to make fun of her, and watches Stiles pay for both their drinks before she can stop him.

He doctors his coffee while Lydia waits for her latte and when they go back outside his car is right where they left it, sans parking ticket.

They get back in the car but Stiles doesn't turn the ignition over, instead dropping his coffee into a cup holder and turning to face her. "Hey, um. Just so you know, I know what you did for Isaac," he says. "Last night, I mean."

"Oh," she whispers, because of course he knows, he's Scott's best friend. "Is he okay?"

"Yeah," he nods. "Yeah, he's going to be fine."

Lydia shivers, remembering the way Isaac had cried in the car, how garish his bruised eye was against his pale face. She feels sick now, thinking about it. "He is?"

He leans in towards her and puts his hand on her wrist. "You did good, Lydia."

She shakes her head. "I didn't even know what to do," she admits shamefully. "He was so scared Stiles, he was so scared and "-

"Hey, hey." Stiles squeezes her wrist, just enough to ground her back into the moment. "Isaac's okay. It's okay now."

She swallows past something thick, feeling the way she had when she drove away from the hospital last night, a sick swirl of anger and fear trying to crawl out of her body. "What's going to happen to him?"

"My dad hooked Scott's mom up with a lawyer. They already went to the courthouse and filed a petition for emergency guardianship this morning while they build a case against Isaac's dad."

"He's going to live with Scott?"

Stiles nods. "At least temporarily. Scott's mom is cool like that. She was on shift last night, she saw what - what he did to Isaac."

"That's good," she says softly. "Isaac will like that."

"Hey," he says, and runs his thumb along the inside of her wrist. "Are you okay? Scott said it was pretty bad."

She swallows back a wave of residual panic. She'd never seen a boy cry like that before; never seen someone hurt like that. Lydia squeezes her eyes shut and takes a deep breath in through her nose. "It was pretty bad," she confirms, her voice cracking on the last word like liquor being poured over ice, and crumples into him.

It's so easy this time, to give it up, let herself dive headfirst into the comfort he's always offering. Lydia presses her face into his shirt like she could hide from anything here, shut everything else out but Stiles, curling up tightly against him when his arms come around her, one of his hands coming up to stroke the top of her braid.

"Hey," Stiles murmurs. "You okay?"

"He didn't want to go to the hospital," she whispers. "He kept asking me to pull over."

"He was scared," Stiles murmurs. "He wasn't thinking straight."

"Stiles?"

He leans down to rest his cheek on the top of her head. "Yeah?"

"I kept thinking..." Lydia stops because she can't get the words out without crying.

"Hey." He uses his leverage on her braid to tip her head back so that he can look down at her. "You thought what?"

She blinks up at him through her lashes and a tear rolls out of the corner of her eye. "I kept thinking...what if it had been me?"

Her voice breaks and she tries to cover her mouth but Stiles reaches down and curls his hands around her wrists and pins them between their bodies. "Lydia," he says worriedly.

She ducks her head, flushing hot with shame. Remembering every time he tried to help her, him and Scott and Allison, and how Lydia refused to let them in. She didn't know what it felt like then, to be on the other side, the helpless terror of watching someone offer their body up for destruction in the name of love.

"I'm sorry," she whispers.

"It's okay," Stiles says quietly, and puts his arms back around her. "I'm here, Lydia. I'm here."

/

Isaac is obviously not at school but neither is Scott, and there's a hum of tension in the air all morning, like some kind of balance has been disrupted by their absence. Lydia keeps catching Jackson's eyes by mistake in class, awkwardly looking away then looking back again.

Lunch is uncomfortable, she and Allison and Stiles sit together but without the common denominator of Scott it's a little stilted. They end up studying for English Lit together, Stiles and Lydia quizzing each other on Macbeth quotes at a rapid fire pace while Allison keeps score in her notebook.

She goes home with Allison after school. Lydia isn't quite sure what Scott told Allison. She knows about Isaac, tells Lydia all about how Scott's mom insisted that Isaac stay with them, but she doesn't seem to know how Lydia is involved.

It makes her wonder again, about Scott, if he's the perfect boyfriend Allison makes him out to be or if he has secrets even Allison doesn't know about.

If Jackson is really interested in Scott because he has some kind of secret (a secret even Allison might not know about?) what could it be?

I thought you definitely figured it out first.

What kind of blackmail does Jackson have on Scott?

What kind of terrible secret could Scott be hiding? Scott, who loves his mom and cries over animals, Scott, who's never said a cruel word to anyone ever, Scott who came to school early to offer to help her, Scott who held Isaac in the back of her car and didn't tell him to toughen up or be a man when he started to cry.

What could possibly be so bad about Scott McCall?

She and Allison study for their upcoming French test at the kitchen table while Mr. Argent cooks a lasagna, occasionally correcting one of them in French, periodically coming over to the table to ruffle Allison's hair and pass them vegetables on a cutting board to chop for the salad.

Lydia knows better than to bring up Scott and his apparent secret during dinner. Allison's parents, for reasons Lydia never really understood, completely freaked out when Allison and Scott started dating last year. Lydia always chalked it up to being overprotective of their only daughter, because what parent would look at Scott's crooked smile and big puppy dog eyes and think, oh yes, better lock up my daughter, that boy looks dangerous?

When Allison drives Lydia home she parks in the driveway, turning sideways in her seat and resting her temple against the headrest. "I know you broke up, but...Jackson hasn't said anything to you, has he?"

Lydia frowns. "Said anything about what?"

Allison shrugs lightly. "I don't know, anything weird."

Lydia raises an eyebrow at her. "You're going to have to be more specific."

Allison sighs. "Anything about Scott, specifically."

"This again?" Lydia makes a face. "We broke up Allison, so no, I don't know what kind of freaky obsession Jackson has with Scott today, it's probably the same as every other day, and since none of you will tell me what the hell is going on I don't see how I can possibly help you with this."

"You could've just said no," Allison mumbles.

"It would be a lot easier if you would just tell me what's going on."

"I know," Allison says wearily. "It's complicated."

"So explain it to me."

Allison looks down at her hands. "Scott's...Scott's special."

"Special how?"

"Just special," Allison says in a small voice.

Lydia stares at her. "Okay...?"

Allison blinks, her eyes suddenly glassy. "It's a secret."

Lydia picks at the strap of her bag. "Let me guess, you can't tell me."

"It's not because of you, it's not personal," Allison says quietly. "Okay? It's just...I need you to trust me."

"Trust you." Lydia repeats flatly.

Allison wipes her nose with the back of her hand.

"Please Lydia. I know this doesn't make any sense"-

"No, it doesn't," Lydia cuts in. "Is Scott in trouble?"

"If Jackson doesn't leave him alone, yeah, he could be."

Lydia spins the pieces around in her head, Jackson, Scott, Derek Hale, but she can't get them to fit together. "You aren't telling me the truth."

"I'm telling you what I can," Allison says tightly.

"You aren't telling me anything!"

"Because I can't!" Allison snaps. "God, just - look, don't you know what it's like to want to protect the person you love? To do anything to keep them safe, even lie to your best friend if you have to."

Lydia has the strange sensation of falling, even though she's sitting down, can hear the wind rushing by her. She's lied before but not to protect Jackson. It was about protecting herself, her own secrets, using words to build walls of deception to keep people out.

"No," she says icily. "I guess I don't know."

Allison groans. "Lydia, come on" -

"I'll see you at school tomorrow," Lydia says quickly, and jumps out of Allison's car before she can say anything else, before she can tell Allison that even if she pretends to have a heart of stone it's just an act, that it hurts her feelings to have her best friend openly keep secrets from her.

That it hurts to be shut out their little group, leaving Lydia left in the dark, to know even less than Jackson.

She doesn't know how to tell Allison that she doesn't want to be in the dark anymore.

/

Scott is back at school the next day. Allison clings to him all morning; it's like when they were first dating and couldn't keep their hands off each other. It's different though today, Allison keeps shooting Lydia pathetic little looks from under Scott's arm, like she wants Lydia to know exactly what is on the line here.

Lydia ignores them, ignores the way Jackson stares at them and her in turn. Only Stiles is acting normally, cheerfully chattering away with Scott during Chemistry, jumping up when class ends to walk out with Lydia, providing a buffer between her and Jackson.

Lydia considers Stiles as they trail behind Scott and Allison on the way to English lit, remembering what Allison said in the car last night. How she would do anything to keep Scott safe, even lie to your best friend if you have to.

Lydia knows Allison has been lying to her for awhile, she's never made much of an effort pretend otherwise.

Is Scott lying to Stiles?

No, she thinks immediately. She may be Allison's best friend and Allison may be lying to her but Scott and Stiles are different. They've been best friends since she can remember noticing them in elementary school, the kind of friends people tend to refer to by one name, ScottandStiles, because they're always together.

Or they were, before Allison. Before Scott made first line and became a lacrosse star overnight, before Jackson ever cared about him.

Lydia glances sideways at Stiles, who's plodding along next to her, eyes half on his open copy of Macbeth, walking a little sideways and weaving back when he gets too close to the lockers. Stiles, with his messy hair and superhero tee shirts, Stiles who talks as fast as she thinks and may be the smartest kid in their grade (after her of course).

Stiles knows. He has to. He's too close to Scott, too much at the center of everything to not know, whatever Scott's secret is, whatever Jackson has discovered.

And then Stiles turns to her and smiles, the light hitting his face, making his eyes melt like a puddle of molten gold, and Lydia feels her newly awakened heart crack like she would break for him, tear herself open and let him take anything he wanted, just to look at her again like that.

Even if he is a liar.

/

They're sitting in the cafeteria at a table, Lydia, Allison, Scott and Stiles, when Scott suddenly goes rigid in his seat, his head whipping around so fast it makes Lydia dizzy.

"Scott?" Allison asks tentatively.

Scott holds a hand up. "Quiet," he orders sharply.

Lydia stares at him in shock, she's never heard him talk to Allison like that, like he's one step away from telling her to shut up, but Allison just closes her mouth and ducks her head, like she's deferring to him. Lydia looks to Stiles for reassurance but he's looking over Scott's head across the cafeteria.

Jackson is leaning against the wall opposite them biting into an apple, staring right at their table. She watches him swallow, throat working. Wipes his mouth. Scott is staring hard down at his shoes but his hands are flexing over the surface of his tray. Lydia can't tell what it is but she knows something is happening, the tension is so thick in the air she swears she can hear it.

When Lydia looks back at Jackson he's grinning smugly, right at her.

A little shiver runs through her and Scott turns too, looking at Lydia with something like horror on his face. Lydia whips back around to Jackson, who cocks an eyebrow and tosses his apple in the trash.

"Scott?" Allison asks again, her voice trembling.

Scott's breathing hard, looking between Lydia and Allison and then back to Jackson's retreating head. "I - he -"

"Totally forgot we have an emergency lunch practice for lacrosse!" Stiles exclaims.

Scott and Lydia both turn to stare at Stiles and Allison wrinkles her nose. "What?"

Stiles jumps up from his chair. "Scott, buddy, c'mon, not here," and Scott twitches like a bolt of electricity is running through him; he gets up and both boys hightail it out of the cafeteria leaving their half eaten lunches still on their trays.

Lydia crosses her arms over her chest and turns to Allison. "Care to explain that?"

Allison is still looking at the doorway to the cafeteria like Scott might come back. "I can't."

Lydia snorts. "Of course you can't."

Allison reaches over to clutch her hand and they both wince when Lydia flinches. "Don't be mad."

"Okay," Lydia says slowly.

Allison picks absentmindedly at her bottom lip. "He's never going to stop, is he?"

"Who?"

"Jackson," Allison mumbles.

"Allison," Lydia asks cautiously. "Did it ever occur to you that if you told me what this big bad secret is, I could actually help?"

Allison goes white and pulls her hand away. "That's what I'm afraid of."

/

At the end of the day Allison, Scott and Stiles are all congregated at Lydia's locker, waiting for her.

"What," Lydia says briskly, stepping around Allison to open her locker, because she knows an intervention when she sees one.

Scott looks nervous, Allison painfully, falsely cheerful, and Stiles is acting furtively, rubbing the back of his neck and looking up and down the corridor, like he's keeping an eye out. Oh yes, these three are definitely up to something.

"Study session at Scott's?" Allison asks, completely out of nowhere.

Lydia arranges her books, applies a fresh coat of lipstick, and shuts her locker. "Right now?"

"Mm-hm," Allison says tightly, and links her arm around Lydia's.

"But we don't even have a test this week," Lydia starts to protest, but Stiles comes around to her other side and lightly rests his hand on her shoulder, caging her in.

"Come on, it'll be fun." Allison literally starts dragging her down the hallway, Scott and Stiles directly behind them.

"Allison, what the hell?" she hisses. "I'm in heels, would you mind not running?"

"You're wearing wedges," Allison corrects.

Lydia is so shocked she stops still and Stiles slams into her from behind, catching her by the hips while mumbling shit, shit, sorry. "Allison, since when do you care about the distinction between wedges and heels?"

"We don't have time for this," Stiles says, and slides his hands up to the curve of her waist to urge her forward.

"You wanted to help," Allison mutters. "Come on, now's your chance."

/

"Well?" Lydia says, where she's perched on an armchair in Scott's living room. "Is one of you going to tell me why we're really here?"

Allison, Scott and Stiles are sitting across from her on the couch, in that order, all wearing matching expressions of apprehension. Stiles' mouth opens and then immediately slams shut with a little abortive sound. He turns to Scott, who rubs his lips anxiously and turns towards Allison, who glares at him and hisses, "Seriously?"

"She's your best friend," Scott says.

"Oh my god," Stiles groans. "Scott."

"What?" Scott throws his hands up. "It's true!"

"Not helping!" Stiles argues.

"Don't put this on me, I didn't bring her into this," Allison says hotly.

"It's not my fault Jackson's obsessed with me," Scott whines.

"Jesus Christ." Stiles runs a hand through his hair. "Can one of you focus, please?"

"Look, as much as I'm enjoying watching you all spin your wheels, you can relax." Lydia leans back languidly in her chair. She's not sure she's right, about any of it, but she's gotten this far. She wants to see how far she can play it out. "I've figured out your dirty little secret."

Scott's mouth drops open in shock, Allison gasps, but Stiles just tilts his head inquisitively and leans forward to spread his hands over his thighs. "Really?"

Lydia rolls her eyes. "Fairly certain, yes."

He raises a challenging eyebrow, looking amused for some reason. "Alright then. Hit me."

"Well I have multiple theories, of course," she says causally, pretending to examine her nails.

Allison gives her a look of total disbelief. "Since when?"

"I don't tell you everything," Lydia says coolly.

Allison snorts. "Obviously."

"Okay then." For some reason Stiles grins, like he can't wait to watch Lydia attempt to blindly guess Scott's secret. "Occam's razor?"

Occam's razor: the principle of logic stating that one should not make more assumptions than the minimum needed.

In other words, when confronted with multiple hypothesis the simplest explanation is usually best.

She shrugs, goes with her intuition and chooses the most obvious explanation. "Scott's on steroids."

"Steroids?" Scott yelps, looking totally freaked out. "Steroids?!"

"Yes!" Stiles shouts, for some reason looking absolutely _delighted_. "Oh my god, yes!"

"Stiles!" Allison and Scott yell at the same time.

"What?" Stiles is bouncing next to Scott, fingers tapping against his knee, _laughing_. "It's perfect. Come on, you have to admit, it's such a great" -

" _Steroids?_ " Scott exclaims, slapping Stiles lightly upside the head. Lydia flinches, thinking of Isaac, the echo of cervical vertebrae snapping back, but Stiles just huffs and punches Scott in the shoulder.

"Stiles," Allison says nervously. "We can't just" -

"What if my mom hears?" Scott asks, his voice admittedly adorably frantic. "Wasn't last year bad enough?"

"So?" Lydia asks, feeling intensely suspicious. "It's true?"

Allison and Stiles both turn to look at Scott with wide eyes. Stiles makes a very complicated face that involves several eyebrow expressions and Scott groans, clearly defeated. He curls up into himself, looking pissed off and resigned. "Yeah, its true."

"Chill, McCall," Lydia says flippantly, her stomach twisting. There's something wrong with this; it's too easy. She wasn't even being serious really; she didn't actually think Scott was that dumb. "I won't tell anyone you're juicing up."

"Oh," Scott says, his eyes widening. " _Juice_."

Lydia wrinkles her nose. "You do know they cause testicular shrinkage, right?"

"Oh my god," Allison mutters. "Oh my god, I can't believe this is my life."

"So now that we've gotten that out of the way, what can I do for you?" Lydia asks graciously. "You said something about needing my help?"

Scott starts to open his mouth but Stiles wave a hand at him. "Bah ah ah, I got this buddy," and Scott nods, looking relieved and humiliated all at once."

"So," Stiles says cheerfully. "Short version. Scotty here, sweet innocent Scott who we all love very much, has himself hooked on the 'roids."

"I hate you," Scott mutters, slouching against the couch cushions.

"Shh, let me do the talking." Stiles pats Scott's chest. "Now, Jackson wants in on his hookup, because, you know, it's Jackson. But the thing is Scott's guy, is, well, let's say extremely selective about his clients. Rumor is Jackson isn't too thrilled about it."

"Believe me, I'm aware," Lydia snaps.

Stiles pauses, looking suddenly concerned. "You are? Did he say something to you?"

Lydia stiffens up, remembering Jackson's hand on her arm and how small she felt compared to him, how his desire eclipsed everything.

"Lydia," Stiles says softly, coaxing. "Tell me what he said."

"He said..." Lydia folds her bare legs under her, unable to look at Stiles. "He wanted to know what he gave me. If he gave it to me."

When she looks up again all three of her friends are staring at her. Allison has a hand over her mouth, Scott's jaw is clenched, and Stiles is tapping his fingers against his leg.

"Is that how he said it?" Stiles asks seriously. "He used those words?"

She nods, feeling suddenly afraid. She's done something by repeating Jackson's words; all three of them look absurdly worried in a way that has nothing to do with Scott.

"Okay," Stiles says slowly. "That's - a development. Did he say anything else?"

Lydia swallows, feeling lightheaded, like it's happening all over again. "He insinuated that you three bribed me into breaking up with him."

Allison makes a noise in the back of her throat. "What?"

"Bribed you with what?" Scott asks, frowning.

"I don't know," she murmurs. She wonders if it would be rude to lie down on Scott's floor and close her eyes until things stop spinning. "He just kept asking if Derek gave it to me. Like that was the reason I was spending time with you, because of him."

"Are you sure that's what he said?" Stiles asks sharply. "He told you about Derek?"

"Not really. I told him I didn't know anything." Lydia presses her palm against her forehead, her voice trembling. "I don't know anything."

"Hey, Lydia." Stiles' voice changes to something soft and tender. "It's okay. Everything's going to be fine."

"Is he a drug dealer?" Lydia asks Allison, ignoring Stiles. "Is that what you meant before? When you told me to be careful?"

Allison flinches. "I think we should get back on topic, okay? Did Jackson say anything to you, anything else?"

"I already told you yesterday Allison, I don't know anything." Her voice rises up at the end, like she might break into a scream.

"Lydia," Stiles asks, holding his hands out toward her like he's anticipating something, like he can tell she wants to get off this chair, lie down on the floor and go to sleep. "Did he threaten you?"

Lydia looks away from him, watching Scott curl his fingers into fists. "Threaten me?"

"It's okay," Stiles says. "You're safe here, you can tell us."

"Why would he do that?" she asks defensively. "He was just - it's Jackson, you know what he's like. He wouldn't hurt me."

Stiles makes a frustrated noise, like he's disappointed, fingers stretching out towards her. "Lydia."

She curls back away from him, seething. "I want to go home," she tells Allison. "I don't want to do this anymore."

"Just hold on." Allison presses her fingertips into her temples. "Look, lets just say, hypothetically, that Jackson is still trying to get Scott to get him..." Allison trails off, making a face. "You know."

Lydia flicks her braid over her shoulder. "Well thanks to all of you I'm not his girlfriend anymore, so I don't see what that has to do with me."

"You know him better than us," Scott says. "He wants an answer from me, tonight."

"I thought that was Derek's call," Lydia says stiffly.

"If Derek says no again, Jackson won't take it out on him, he'll take it out on us," Scott explains. "He'll take it out on you."

"Let him," Lydia says harshly, unfolding her legs to stand up and face Allison. "Can we go now?"

Allison looks hesitantly at Scott, who shrugs wearily. "Okay," Allison says. "We just need you to tell Scott what to tell Jackson. If you think it's worth...risking whatever Jackson might do."

Lydia blinks. "What he might do?"

Allison nods hesitantly. "I think it's fair to be concerned about retaliation."

Retaliation. Lydia think about Jackson's hands, on her neck, on her wrist, on her arm, Jackson pushing her up against furniture, Jackson sneering at her like she's a dumb little girl. "He wouldn't hurt me," she says softly, but it comes out sounding more like a question than an answer.

Stiles huffs. "Has it occurred to you that none of us might be willing to risk that?"

"Well it's not your decision, is it?" Lydia holds her head high, hands folded behind her back so her friends can't see how they're shaking. "Don't give him anything," she orders Scott. "I don't care what he says. Not one thing."

/

Lydia's in the hallway the next morning, walking from homeroom to first period, when a hand grabs her forearm and pulls her so hard she trips, stumbling sideways into a little alcove and smacking her hip against the wall. When she looks up she's totally boxed in, blue eyes burrowing into her.

Jackson.

"Oh Lydia," he says in a low voice. "You just couldn't stay out of it, could you?"

"I don't know what you're talking about." She tilts her head down, forcing herself to stay small, faking submission.

"I know you talked to Scott," Jackson growls. "I know what you told him."

"I didn't," she lies. "I didn't tell him anything" -

"Bullshit!" Jackson yells. His hand flies out but before she can even duck there's another hand closing around Jackson's wrist and pulling his arm behind his back.

"Now, now." Isaac says cheerfully. "Is that any way to treat a lady?"

Lydia stares at him in shock. She didn't even know Isaac was back at school. His skin is smooth and glowing, his eye is healed to the point where she can't even see a shadow of a bruise, and he's got Jackson pinned with one arm twisted behind his back.

"You?" Jackson sputters, wrenching his arm out of Isaac's grip and stumbling back, rubbing the place where Isaac held his forearm. "Seriously, _you?_ "

Isaac grins but there's a bite to it that makes him look a little dangerous. "That's right."

Jackson's mouth opens and closes like a fish and then to Lydia's total surprise he turns on his heel and walks away, fuming. Lydia watches him leave, hip throbbing. She looks back at Isaac, who's just standing there, like he's waiting for her, giving her a careful evaluating look.

Lydia steps away from the wall, curling her fingers around the strap of her book bag. "You didn't have to do that."

"I owed you one." Like it's nothing. Isaac gives her a friendly pat on the shoulder. "Come on, I'll walk you to class."

/

Lydia goes to Beacon Hill's lacrosse game the following night with Allison. It's the first game she's gone to since she and Jackson broke up and it feels wrong. She feels like a fraud, being here without a real reason, here just to keep Allison company as she cheers Scott on.

But then Stiles turns around on the bench and spots her and his face lights up; he throws both his arms up to wave at her.

Allison grins and nudges Lydia with her elbow. "Someone's looking happy to see you."

"It's just Stiles," Lydia says lightly. "We're friends."

"Mm okay, sure," Allison says cheekily.

"Allison."

"What?" Allison smirks. "I'm just saying."

"I haven't even been single for a week. I'm not going to jump into a new relationship after four days, that's not what I'm looking for."

Allison tilts her head inquisitively. "So what are you looking for?"

"I don't know," Lydia ponders. "A distraction might be nice."

The game remains tied 0-0 all the way until the last three minutes of the final period. Scott has the ball cradled in his stick and he's charging down the field, everyone in the stands up on their feet watching with bated breath, when a player slams into Scott's side and tackles him. Everyone sighs in disappointment and then gasps in surprise collectively, because the player who checked him isn't on the other team - the player is Jackson.

"Oh my god," Allison whispers. "What is he doing?"

Lydia shakes her head, watching with wide eyes as Scott peels himself off the grass, screaming and gesturing at Jackson. Jackson yells something back and then they're diving at each other at the same time, slamming back down on the ground, fists flying.

The referee is loudly blowing his whistle, Finstock is screaming at Jackson, half the people in the stands are gaping. Isaac, Stiles, and a player from the other team who Lydia vaguely recognized from lacrosse parties, Brett she thinks, dive into the fight to separate Scott and Jackson, who both immediately get benched and skulk off the field, glaring openly at each.

"I don't understand," Allison says, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. "Why would he do that? They're on the same team!"

"I don't know," Lydia murmurs. This is what Stiles must have meant though, when he said _retaliation_.

The clock starts again, everyone is clearly thrown off by the impromptu brawl, and somehow, with thirty seconds left on the clock, Stiles gets the ball.

"Oh my god," Allison says excitedly, grabbing Lydia's hand and bouncing up and down.

Stiles stands on the field, under the lights, ball cradled in his stick, four feet away from the goal, frozen, like he can't believe this is actually happening, while players from the opposite team run down the field towards him.

"What are you doing?" Lydia murmurs, and cups her hands over her mouth to amplify her voice. "Shoot it!"

Stiles' head snaps up and Lydia can see it, his body jolting back into the moment, and he slings his stick back to shoot the ball right into the net. The stands erupt in cheers and even Lydia can't resist clapping loudly, jumping up and down with Allison, because Stiles is her friend and he just won Beacon Hill their game and she's proud of him, okay? He's her friend, he scored the winning goal; she's allowed to be proud.

Lydia stands with Allison next to her car in the parking lot after the field has been cleared, waiting for Scott and Stiles to come out of the locker room. She sees the boys amble towards them from across the lot, freshly showered, gym bags slung over their shoulders. Allison runs up to Scott, throwing her arms around him and whispering something that Lydia can't hear into his ear.

"So," Lydia says to Stiles, stepping a little closer to him and away from where Scott and Allison are locked together. "Great game."

Stiles flushes, his cheeks pink. "I scored a goal."

Lydia smiles. "You did."

Stiles' face lights up. "You saw me score a goal."

She nods, lips twitching in amusement. He's cute like this, all excited, radiating with pride. "I did."

A slamming car door startled her and when she looks over Stiles she sees Jackson watching her, leaning up against the Porsche.

"Hey," she says softly. "I'll be right back, okay?"

Stiles twists back over his shoulder and his expression darkens when he sees Jackson. "Lydia" -

"I'll be fine," she reassures him. "I'll be back in a minute."

She crosses around Stiles and walks down a row of cars, the click of her boots on the blacktop painfully loud in her ears. Jackson's just waiting there, his arms crossed, watching her get closer.

"Jackson." She stops a foot away from him, hands curling up at her sides.

"What do you want?" He sounds tired.

"Jackson, this has to stop. You have to stop."

Jackson rolls his shoulder. "Just stay out of it, Lydia."

"Jackson," she says sharply. "I'm serious. Someone's going to get hurt. You could get hurt."

"And why do you care?" he asks, his voice rusty.

She blinks at him. "Because I love you."

Jackson flinches, so small she almost misses it. "Walk away, Lydia."

She holds her ground, chin held high. "No."

"Jesus Christ Lydia, for once in your life would you just listen to me?"

"Please," she whispers. "I know you. I know that you can change. You don't have to do this. You don't have to be this person."

Jackson pushes off his car and Lydia stumbles back a few steps instinctively. Jackson raises an eyebrow at her and she flushes but holds her gaze. He steps up to her slowly, like a dare, like they're playing chicken. She forces herself to hold her ground, to not move, to turn her back on him and run to Stiles.

 _You don't need him to save you_ , she tells herself, too afraid to breathe. _You don't need anyone to save you. Don't move, you've made your choice, now watch as his hands take you apart._

Jackson lays his hand flat on her forearm but he's gentle this time; such a shocking contrast from yesterday morning at school, when Isaac rescued her. "Lydia," he says, his voice even and firm. "Walk. Away."

Her eyes burn and his face blurs over. "Why are you doing this?"

"You're not my girlfriend anymore." It stings but he's right, she's not. "I don't have to tell you anything."

"Jackson." His name comes out like a sob. "Please."

His hand grips tighter and he uses the force to turn her around so she's facing away from him. Across the parking lot Stiles Scott and Allison are waiting for her, watching, looking very tense.

Jackson lets go of her arm but he's so close, right behind her, it's easy for him to bend down and whisper into her ear. "I'm done, Lydia. Now be a good girl and walk back to your friends, or you won't like what happens next."

So she takes one step, then another, and she keeps walking like a princess put under a spell, until she's close enough for Stiles to reach out and pull her into his arms.

"Hey," he whispers. "Hey, you're okay, it's okay."

"I'm fine," she mutters, pushing at his chest, because this is embarrassing, to be coddled like this in front of everyone else. "Stiles, I'm fine."

Stiles reaches down and brushes something off her cheek, looking concerned. "Lydia, you're crying."

She blinks at him, confused, and looks down at the finger he's holding out, the one he used to touch her cheek. There's a tear, her tear, glistening on the pad of his finger under the streetlights, shining like some rare precious jewel.

/

Lydia goes to the Jungle on Saturday night with Danny because she needs a distraction, and nothing screams distraction like dancing with a hoard of gay guys for a few hours. She wears a tiny strapless black bodycon minidress, black stilettos, and her hair is blown out in a glossy sheet.

She and Danny get in with the fakes he made them over the summer, and when they get inside they each grab a handful of shots off the tray of the first cocktail waitress they see, a baby-faced brunette who can't be much older than fifteen.

She and Danny are serious together when it comes to clubbing, they each down three shots consecutively and submerge themselves into the crowd on the dance floor, the warmth of the alcohol indistinguishable from the warmth of the group of people, boys in tight shirts and even tighter jeans, girls wearing brightly colored dresses interspersed among them.

She loses Danny and ends up dancing with a guy approximately her age, a boy with Jackson's cut jawline and sharp cheekbones, but he's a little darker, brown eyes instead of blue. He's dressed casually, a burgundy cotton vee neck and dark jeans, and he feels so good, his hands big and warm on her hips, cocky little smile on his face, and then she feels him hard against her hip and she thinks, oh, alright then.

It's perfect, really. No history, no expectations. No names, even. It's easy, to tilt her head up to him and purse her lips, trail her finger down his chest, watching his pupils dilate.

He bends down over her and drags his lips across her jaw. "How would you feel about taking this someplace a little more private?"

It's just so easy. To be given a choice like that. Such a simple thing, like a note a child passes to their crush in class.

Do you love me? Yes? No?

Who do you love? Who do you love, Lydia?

She lets him lead her out of the club by her hand, quickly texting Danny with the other, who she know won't mind, there's a good chance he's already found someone to spend his night with. She and Danny have an understanding that way.

The boy leads her down the street to a parked motorcycle. He lifts the seat up and pulls out a helmet, carries it under his arm to her.

"So what?" she says sardonically, holding still so that he can buckle the helmet under her chin. "You're a bad boy?"

"Oh, I don't know." His voice is soft and dangerous, his lips curving up into a smirk. "I could be good; for you."

She gets on the bike behind him and wraps her arms around his waist. She leans into the curves with him like he instructs her to, her heart pounding against his back as he drives, exposed thighs freezing in the cool air.

He takes her to a rundown looking apartment building and Lydia slides off the bike, a wave of uneasiness hitting her.

"We just bought a house," he says quickly, like he can tell she's suddenly wary. "But we don't have any furniture yet. No beds. We're just staying here for a few nights."

Lydia blinks at him, feeling a little nebulous, like all the edges around her are blurring, taking the helmet off and pushing it into his hands. "What?"

"We just moved to Beacon Hills." He steps forward and runs his fingers up and down her arm. "I'm new in town."

There's something hypnotizing about him, the way he seems to anticipate what she's about to say before she says it.

"Come on," he says softly, and threads his fingers through hers. "I don't bite." Then he winks, giving her a wolfish grin. "Much."

He takes her up a dimly lit staircase to the third floor and unlocks the door to an apartment at the end of the hall. She follows him inside, taking careful steps in the dark, the only light in the apartment coming from the moonlight filtering in through the window.

Lydia sways in a little hallway between the kitchen and what she presumes are the bedrooms. She only had three shots at the club but she's lightheaded, like she might fall down.

"Can I - is there somewhere I can freshen up?" she asks, giving him a sweet smile and rounding her shoulders so the neckline of her dress dips down a bit more.

"Yeah," he says, eyes on her cleavage, just like she wanted. "Bathroom's right here." Leaning past her to tap a door she hadn't noticed, because she's in a hallway with a stranger in the dark.

Why are you here? What are you doing?

Lydia smiles demurely and escapes into the bathroom. She locks the door and sits down on the closed toilet lid, bends over and inhales slowly through her nose. She realizes that she's shaking, like she's cold, but it's coming from something deeper, some internal equilibrium has been disrupted.

She only allows herself a few minutes before forcing herself to pull it together. She runs cold water under her wrists, finger-combs her hair and steps back out into the hallway.

He's standing there waiting for her, but -

His shirt is a different color than before, green now, and he's looking at her in a completely foreign way, like he didn't know she was in there, but then his face smoothes out into a carefully blank expression.

Lydia stumbles back a step, her lungs devoid of oxygen because something is wrong, this isn't him, this isn't the right boy.

"Impressive," his doppelgänger says. "No one tells us apart that easily. You must be a smart one."

Lydia goes numb. "What?"

He flashes her a wicked smile. "We're twins."

Brothers. They're brothers.

"Aiden went to the convenience store," the boy says. "He'll be back in a minute."

Lydia nods, frozen.

He waggled his eyebrows salaciously. "Have a goodnight." And then he walks away, disappears behind a door.

She stands there, something that feels wrong and dirty coursing through her. The hallway is dark but there's light creeping in under the front door.

What is she doing here? What is she doing in the hallway?

It's a split-second decision - she pushes through the kitchen and then she's out the door, running through another hallway and back down the three flights of stairs. Lydia bursts out of the building and turns hard and walks as quickly as she can without actually breaking into a run, adrenaline pumping in her veins, and doesn't stop until she's three blocks away.

She huddles by a street lamp and bends down, unzips her little bag and pulls out her phone to call a ride, and stares down at the screen in betrayal.

Dead.

The fear come on for real this time. She's alone, in a middle of the night with a dead phone, on the side of the road in a cocktail dress. Like a prostitute.

She stares up at the sky, the moon hanging low and fat on the horizon, almost full. It's almost like sleeping, standing there, frozen and numb with terror, staring up at the glowing satellite like it could send out a homing beacon for her.

She's just starting to approach a genuine panic attack when headlights suddenly fall brightly across her face and Lydia shields her eyes with one hand, watching a sleek black car pull up to the curb in front of her.

The window rolls down and pale eyes shine out in the darkness. "Hey," Derek Hale says. "Need a ride?"

Lydia stands there on the sidewalk, remembering Allison's earlier warning about Derek. Weighs getting in the car with an alleged drug dealer with staying out here, past midnight, alone, on the wrong side of town.

"You're Stiles' friend, right?" He unbuckles his seatbelt so he can lean towards the window and gives her a disarming smile.

Lydia nods uneasily. Allison didn't say that Derek was dangerous, and he knows Scott and Stiles. He can't be that bad, right?

The passenger door swing open from the inside. "Come on," he says, a little brisker this time. "Get in the car."

It's so easy there isn't even a choice to make.

She slides into the passenger seat and slams the door shut, the skirt of her dress riding up to the tops of her thighs. "Thank you," she says primly.

He snorts and accelerates, speeding through the next intersection and cutting the wheel sharply to turn around in the direction of her neighborhood.

"You shouldn't be out this late by yourself," he mutters.

Lydia scowls at that. "It's Beacon Hills, it's not like anything happens here."

For some reason that amuses him, his lips tick up in a ghost of a smirk but he doesn't say anything. Lydia studies him as he drives, takes in his bone structure, the muscles that must be hiding under his leather jacket. He really is gorgeous and she feels a bit of a rush, a second wave of adrenaline.

She's in a car with a stranger, all alone. He could do anything to her, anything. But it's not like before with the boy in the club because Stiles knows Derek, her friends all seem to know Derek, and he's not even looking at her, hasn't said anything remotely creepy.

Lydia's a little disappointed about it actually. She still has that need, that impulse to throw herself on a fire, burn the fear out of her, overwhelmed by the knowledge that she and Jackson are really over, that Scott and therefore Allison might really be in trouble. And Stiles, trying to help everyone, help her.

"So," she says, because the silence is leading her thoughts to bad places she'd rather avoid. "You know Scott right?"

"Mhmm," he says noncommittally. "You're Lydia right?"

She nods hesitantly. "He told you about me?"

Derek shakes his head. "Stiles."

"Oh." That makes more sense, she supposes. She remembers that day driving with Stiles after school the day she met Derek, her feet propped up on the dashboard, feeling a little wild and reckless.

Like she wanted to push things, just to see how far she can take it. Lydia straightens up in her seat, letting the hem of her dress ride up another inch. "So," she says, flipping her hair off her shoulder. "Do you think I'm pretty?"

His eyes don't leave the road. "You know you're pretty," he says patiently. "Why are you asking me?"

She slides her left hand over the console and drops it on his thigh. "I want to know what you think."

His right hand reaches down and removers her hand from his leg and drops it into her lap. "Don't bother. I don't fuck little girls."

Lydia pouts, wounded. "I'm seventeen."

"A child," he says firmly, and Lydia gets the distinct impression that he's actually serious, and testing him would get her nowhere.

She sighs, like she's bored, and stares out the window, forehead pressed against the cool glass. It's only when he blows past the main road that leads to her street that she realizes he hasn't asked her where to take her, but he certainly seems to be going somewhere.

Her stomach contracts. "Where are we going?"

"Scott's house."

She rotates sideways in her seat to stares at him. "Why?"

Derek turns his head to smile at her, slow and cunning, and Lydia shivers with fear. "You'll see," is all he says about it.

When they get to Scott's house Derek parks and practically leaps out of the car, runs around the front of the car and opens the passenger door. "Come on," he says.

Lydia's hands unbuckle her seatbelt on autopilot, she steps out of the car on shaking legs and swallows a cry when Derek closes his hand over her left shoulder.

"What are we doing?" she whispers, because something is wrong, that missing piece she hasn't been able to figure out taunting her.

"We're waiting for Scott," Derek says calmly.

"He doesn't even know we're here."

Derek gives her a smug smile. "Trust me, he knows."

"Screw this," she mutters, and tries to get away, but his grip on her shoulder tightens like iron and she looks up at him, and his eyes -

His eyes.

Glowing, in the moonlight, but not from it. Glowing from something inside him, something unreal, not real, this can't be real -

"Calm down," Derek says evenly.

The front door to the McCall house bursts open and Scott is illuminated in the doorway, hair sticking up, and he looks furious. "What the hell, Derek?" Scott shouts, and stomps down the front steps, stopping halfway down the sidewalk, glaring.

Derek jostles Lydia's shoulder and she swallows a whimper. "Hey Scott, I found something that belongs to you."

And suddenly, with crystal clarity, Lydia understands two things:

Derek, whatever he is, isn't human.

And Lydia is his hostage.

"What's going on?" Scott asks. "What are you doing with her? This is not what we agreed to!"

"Scott," Lydia whispers, because it's too late, she should have thrown herself at his feet and begged for him to save her when she had the chance.

"It's okay Lydia," Scott reassures her. "Derek come on, you're scaring her."

"Found her by the side of the road," Derek continues. "Dressed like this, all the way across town."

"Derek"-

"You told me you had things under control, Scott!"

Scott throws his hands up in the air. "I've got a lot of shit on my plate, man!"

"Don't make excuses," Derek snaps. "She's one of yours, isn't she?"

Scott stiffens. "It's not like that."

Derek raises an eyebrow. "Really."

Scott manages to look both sleepy and pissed off, something of a feat. Lydia's gone numb, she can't feel anything except a low pulsing fear and the survival instinct to run to Scott.

Scott folds his arms across his chest. "She's Allison's best friend; Lydia's off the table. Unless you want the Argents' on your ass."

Derek growls and Lydia whines in fear, struggling vainly to get away. "So for all intents and purposes..."

"She's with me," Scott says firmly, and holds out his hands to her. "C'mere Lydia."

The hand in her shoulder disappears but Lydia can't move.

Monster, monster, he's a monster.

"Lydia," Scott says a little more firmly. "Come to me, it's okay."

Something snaps inside her and she runs, bolting across the grass to throw herself against Scott, clutching onto his arm and using it to shield herself from Derek.

"Scott," she gasps. "Scott, Scott."

"It's okay," Scott murmurs, and gives Derek a dirty look. "Christ, you scared the hell out of her," he complains. "Why do you always have to be such a dick?"

Derek shrugs. "Full moon tomorrow."

Scott slaps his palm against his forehead. "Dude, I know."

Derek scowls. "I told you and Stilinski not to call me that."

Scott reaches down and unfurls Lydia's fingers from his shirtsleeve. "I'll see tomorrow with Isaac?"

Lydia stares up at Scott, because there is a monster standing outside of his house and Scott - Scott knows.

It's the only explanation.

"You're welcome," Derek tosses out, and unbelievably, walks away, unlocks his car and gets back inside.

Lydia leans against Scott, breathing shallowly, watching as Derek turns his headlights on and drives away. "Scott," she says desperately. "I don't – I don't understand what's happening."

Scott wraps one arm around her shoulder and gives her a look so tender it makes her want to slap him. "I know, Lydia." He sighs and walks them back to the front stairs and sinks down on the bottom step, holding on to her so they can sit side by side. "Look, I know you're really confused right now but it's going to be okay."

"How can I trust you?" she asks him brokenly. "You lied, you all lied" –

"Do you trust Allison?" Scott interrupts. "Like, really trust her?"

Lydia hesitates only for a moment before nodding her head yes.

Scott reaches down and pats her bare knee gently, "Then you can trust me." He pulls his phone out of his pocket and unlocks it. "My mom has the car tonight, I'm going to call Stiles to drive you home."

Lydia tips her head back and closes her eyes. "Okay."

/

Stiles shows up fifteen minutes later in his Jeep, wearing jeans and his red hoody, fuming. "Are you kidding me?" he yells, but Lydia can't tell if it's directed at her or Scott.

"Stiles," Scott says beseechingly. It's after midnight, can we please do this tomorrow."

Stiles' eyes go wide and he flails his arms. "Seriously? Again, are you kidding me?"

"Shit," Scott says. "Look, she's fine, dude, we're all a little worked up here."

"I just, I mean this is like, new proportions of" –

"Stiles!" Scott stretches and stands up, rubbing his eyes. "Just take a deep breath man."

Stiles is clearly agitated, bouncing on his toes. "Okay. Yeah, okay fine. Lydia, let's go."

Lydia stands up but she doesn't walk towards him. "No."

"No?" Stiles splutters. " _No?_ "

"That's right," she says sweetly. "Not until you tell me exactly what's going on."

"What's going on with what?" Stiles asks cautiously.

"She saw Derek's eyes," Scott says wearily.

Stiles shakes his head rapidly, like he's trying to physically clear his head. "Okay. That's just freaking fantastic. Come on Lydia, time to go."

"No, I told you" –

"Lydia, get your cute little ass in the car right now!"

She crosses her arms across her chest. "Hmm, how about no?"

Stiles steps forward and she realizes that he's shaking, badly, and his eyes won't focus on anything. "Please," he says hoarsely.

"You have to promise to tell me tomorrow," she says to him and Scott. "The truth." The real truth."

Stiles looks hesitantly at Scott. "Full moon tomorrow," he comments.

Scott glowers. "Yeah, Derek made sure to mention it."

Stiles bobs his head. "So are we good? Can we go now, please?"

"Fine," Lydia huffs, but only because she's exhausted. She was practically abducted tonight after all. She flounces to his car and hauls herself into the Jeep, watches Scott and Stiles hug very briefly and then Stiles turns back and jogs to the car.

He doesn't say anything the entire way back to her house so she doesn't either. Because what is there to say?

 _You didn't see anything. It was a trick, parlor magic, it wasn't real. Nothing glowed like they were lit from within, like some dark avenging angel._

Except some deeper part of her knows that its true, she knows what she saw, even if no one believes her.

Stiles parks the car, and then he's unbuckling his seatbelt so he can face her without being constrained. "You know, I'm so mad at you right now."

Lydia's mouth drops open. " _Me_? What did I do?"

"You got picked up in the worst part of town in the middle of the night! By Derek Hale! God Lydia, it's like you don't even care."

She recoils back in her seat. "Care about what?"

Stiles is gaping at her. "About yourself."

Lydia flinches. "What are you talking about?"

"You just throw yourself into these dangerous situations and you don't even care if you get hurt! Have you even thought about what it would do to me, to _Allison_ , if something happened to you?" He's so upset, his eyes blown wide, hands flinging around as he yells.

It would be so easy, to yell back, to tell him how he doesn't know, he could never understand, to deflect with more questions about Scott and Derek and how its possible for a man to glow in the dark.

This time she chooses differently.

She undoes her seatbelt and slides sideways in her seat to lay her hands flat over his. "I'm sorry I scared you," she whispers.

Right away she knows she's made the right choice. Stiles exhales, with his whole body, and nods, and its so easy, to pull his arm over her shoulders so she can turn around in the small space to lean her back against his chest. "Stiles?"

From behind her there's a choking sound but then Stiles shifts and wraps both arms around her, anchoring her to his body. "Yeah, Lydia."

"Can we just sit here for a minute? I don't want to go inside yet."

There's a phantom press of lips to the top of her head. "Yeah, we can stay here for as long as you want."

She sighs and tips her head back against his shoulder. She can see the moon shining in the sky, a shimming halo around it, bright and mysterious.

"Stiles?" she murmurs. She's so tired, adrenaline bleeding out of her system, but she finally feels safe, here, in this moment, and she can't give it up, not yet. She doesn't have all the answers yet but it's okay, she will, and right now she doesn't want to be anywhere else

It's dark outside but she sees light, all around her.

"Yeah?" he answers softly.

"Isn't the moon pretty?" she asks dreamily, like she's halfway asleep. But she can do that here, because Stiles will wake her up, Stiles won't let her fall asleep in the snow.

"Yeah," Stiles whispers. "Yeah, Lydia. It's beautiful." 


End file.
